Silence became a metaphor for time, where beings discover within themselves everything that unsettles their daily rhetoric. When it turns as dark as night, any thought becomes a muffled cry of nostalgia, rage, or, with luck, serenity.

From that litany emerged music, dance, and so many other means to dim its majesty—yet without the complicity of the dawn, it turns pain into an uncomfortable specter for the soul.

It is a vast and beautiful reflection of the universe, where sometimes, like stars, thoughts arise—shooting stars or descending comets. It smells of memory, it carries the scent of despair, and almost no one wishes to listen to themselves when nothing stirs within. If it is deep, it is confusing; if it is loud, it is cautious, but with a great echo it ripples across the entire world.

Who has not felt it become eternal when, in the mist of unrest, the heart beats slower, the soul lowers its flight, and consciousness seeks answers far away?

Like the deep, dark sea, it guards secrets—yet in its majesty it reveals the answers to mysteries that, like waves, come and go, burying with a wounded cry the lament of despair.

It not only becomes inert, but a threat to feeling itself when it turns noisy and impertinent—out of protection, out of cowardice, and, why not, out of stupor and desolation.

Now, reasons overflow when, in the gaze, a testament is expressed to all that the mouth withholds, turning this letter without words into…

A STRIKE OF SILENCE.