There’s a new notebook on my table. It’s blank, and every morning it looks at me from the same spot, as if waiting for something I don’t yet know how to say.<\/p>\n
I don’t open it. I leave it there, because some things need their time before they can be put into words. Writing too soon is like picking the fruit before it ripens.<\/p>\n
It happens with people. Sometimes they arrive in a hurry to name everything, to understand, to resolve. And I propose the opposite: sitting a while with what has no name yet.<\/p>\n
A blank notebook is not an emptiness. It’s a waiting. A space where everything still fits, where nothing is decided and therefore nothing is lost.<\/p>\n
September approaches, and with it that feeling of beginning. But I don’t want to fill the notebook with plans. I want the first pages to be about the arriving autumn, about what the body wants to tell.<\/p>\n
I’ll open it when the time comes. For now, it’s enough to know it’s there, blank, waiting.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
There’s a new notebook on my table. It’s blank, and every morning it looks at me from the same spot, as if waiting for something…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":31,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","categories":[],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-12595","diario","type-diario","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\n