Esse tropeço que leva o cruzar de olhos e reconhecimento de almas. Mas não há mais olhos se encontrando. Apenas esbarrões, toques sem tato, um quase atravessar de corpos como sombras. Semitransparentes. O sangue ainda corre, o coração pulsa, mas estão todos ocupados demais para ouvir qualquer coisa.

“Me desculpe“.

Possuem também seus fones de ouvido. Atravessamos vidas de forma tão superficial que não parece que as mãos foram dadas em algum momento. Nem sequer que nossos corpos habitaram desejo num mesmo instante. A desconexão é instantânea, tal qual tirar o cabo da tomada. Ali já não há mais energia, não há mais vida.

O relógio marca 18h, mas não há ninguém à espera.

También fui pluma,
un puñado de color
destinado a ser despojo.

Pero caí.

Ni como mariposa,
ni como pluma,
como cae una hoja seca
en medio del otoño.

Caí.

No soy más que
luz rechazada.

En el suelo,
aguardando el golpe del viento,
o la fuerza de los pies.

Me desintegro.

Pero aún hay luz.

Para que brillen otras mariposas.
Para que más plumas
permanezcan en el viento.

Y entonces,
cuánta belleza hay en la caída.

Maybe, one evening, we will sit side by side watching the sun dissolve into something softer. Not speaking, not needing to, just existing in the quiet migration from strangers to something unnamed. And maybe I will tell you about the fracture. Not just the bone that broke, but the way time slowed around it, how pain taught me the language of waiting. You might laugh, gently, and offer me a story of your own. About the first time your heart leaned toward someone who did not stay.

We will map our pasts like constellations, connecting what hurt to what healed.
If the rain comes, let it. Let it interrupt us mid-sentence. Let it rewrite the evening. Hold me not like a promise of forever, but like a moment that chooses to stay, despite knowing it does not have to.
Tell me I am still beautiful, not as reassurance, but as recognition. As if you are discovering it in real time.

Maybe we will move again. Through crowded streets, through laughter that spills too easily, through a night at a theme park where everything spins and glows and we forget, briefly, how heavy the world can be.

Or maybe we will just dance. Not to music, but to the rhythm of rain against borrowed time.
And in that movement, between what was, what is, and what might never be, we will find something quieter than forever, but far more honest.
A moment that chose us back.

Maybe.

“Toda noite o homem entra no meu quarto e ninguém me acode. Me ajuda professora.”

A professora não levou a sério e o tempo passou.

Fim do ano, época das provas orais. Na sua vez, emudeceu e chorou. Foi levada para a sala da diretora, que a questionou sobre o motivo de sua recusa. Josi repetiu: “Me ajude senhora, já não consigo estudar, tenho nem cabeça para brincar na rua com os colegas. Toda noite fico em claro com medo da quele homem me fazer mal”.

A diretora procurou a mãe de Josi para perguntar sobre o tal homem. Lourdes disse que não esquentasse a cabeça, que não tinha homem nenhum, tudo ideia da cabeça da filha.

A diretora então parou de esquentar a cabeça.

O tempo passou novamente. Veio o ano seguinte.

Josiane pediu ajuda às irmãs. Apenas a caçula se pronunciou: “vai no padre”.

Dias depois, voltando da escola, Josiane procurou pelo padre, pediu para se confessar. Contou tudo ao pároco. Escutou dele que um tanto de reza e fé iriam ajudar, mas que não preocupasse, deus não entrega a ninguém cruz maior do que se pode carregar.

Desesperou-se.

Restou apenas contar tudo para sua mãe. Levou um tapa na cara e foi posta de castigo.

Pensava no padre, pensava em deus, não conseguia entender o peso da cruz.

Um dia começaram a notar sua barriga, e logo foi chamada na sala da diretora da escola. Perguntada sobre como aquilo havia acontecido, respondeu: “Foi vontade de deus,”. Acharam que era deboche e gritaram com ela, queriam a verdade. “É a verdade, Deus quer que eu guarde na minha barriga meu irmãozinho, pra eu cuidar dele”.

Josiane parou de frequentar a escola. Tempos depois já não era vista nem na rua. Diziam que tinha sido levada para outra cidade onde fez seu parto e entregou o recém-nascido para doação.

No ano seguinte voltou a ser vista na cidade, mas não retornou para a escola. Nunca mais.

Conseguiu emprego, mas todo o resto lhe faltava. Os rapazes nunca se aproximavam. As amigas tinham vergonha de serem vistas em sua companhia.

O tempo continuava a passar, e o povo parecia nunca esquecer do ocorrido. Nunca entendeu o motivo de ninguém a ter acudido.

Um dia a vida ficou pesada demais. Decidiu recomeçar em outro canto. Deixou tudo para trás e seguiu seu rumo com um peso no coração.

Desapareceu da cidade, mas ninguém notou.

Rose era feliz, se dizia sortuda por te levado uma vida tola, sem muitas delícias, mas também de poucas tristezas.

Teve os homens que quis, mesmo que às escondidas. Quando decidiu se casar, escolheu a dedo o marido. Construiu sua casa no seu bairro favorito e a pintou de azul. Tinha uma piscina para os finais de semana, emprego estável, salário justo. Não podia ter filhos, mas adotou o certo: carinhoso, companheiro e bem educado.

Nunca viajou ao exterior, mas em todos os verões alugava uma casa na praia do Espírito Santo.

Aprendeu a dirigir, comprou seu carro, organizava o terço e era considerada pilar da comunidade.

Ainda jovem, começou a enlouquecer. Não teve tempo de compreender o que acontecia com sua mente, foi atropelada por uma esclerose avassaladora. Ao menos durou pouco.

Num domingo, voltou da missa e como sempre fazia foi arrumar o almoço. Seu marido estranhou a demora, e quando chegou na cozinha encontrou a mulher em chamas.

Havia atirado álcool no corpo e riscado um fósforo.

O Marido, assombrado, perguntava por que ela havia feito aquilo, enquanto a puxava da cozinha na direção da piscina. Ela apenas dizia “não dói, não se preocupe”.

Caiu na água, o fogo se apagou. O marido a levou para o carro e partiu em direção ao hospital. No caminho, ela repetia: “não dói, não se preocupe”. Sua pele se desprendia do corpo, assim como sua consciência. Chegou morta na emergência.

No bairro, todos se espantaram com a notícia. Menos pela perda da vizinha, talvez, mais pelo silêncio com o que tudo transcorreu.

Te observo cuando llegas
y cuanto te vas.
Pasan los días y mi sentimiento no cambia.

Las aves pasan,
las nubes descargan,
las colinas reverdecen,
mientras yo sigo sintiéndote.

Podría perderme en el camino,
fracasar 1007 veces,
y la consciencia de tu existencia
me salvaría en mi paso por Bahia.

Mañana llego a Goiana,
y creo haberte visto mientras contemplaba el sol nacer.
A pesar de la distancia continúo siguiéndote.

La razón me pide nuestro reencuentro.
Aunque es irrelevante para mí,
pues tu cuerpo en mi memoria es mi mayor ganancia.

Dejarte fue mi mayor acto de fé,
pues sé que, tú y yo, somos consonantes.
Eres mi conforto mientras camino por esta ciudad sin alma,
Imaginándote.

Trabajo y leo,
tú, mi fuente de inspiración, al escribir.
En este momento, que me tengo que ir,
nuevamente,
te pienso y te anhelo con ansia.

Bello es despertar los poros de tu piel
Con las puntas de mis dedos
Desfallecer constantemente en éxtasis
Y robarnos el aliento

Bello es abrazarnos nuestras manos
Mientras deambulamos por las calles sin destino,
Desnudarte con la vista el alma
Y recorrer los laberintos de tu mente
Cuando me compartes tus memorias

Bello es reprimir mis deseos
Para satisfacerlos con sus besos
Sentirme tuya, sólo tuya
En medio de una oleada abrasadora

Bello es admirarte y saberte mío
Imaginar una primavera eterna a tu lado
Amar nuestras imperfecciones
Y permanecer en fracciones indivisibles del tiempo

Belleza es ir por la vida amándote, sintiéndote
Caminando hombro con hombro
Sabiendo que a diario elegimos amarnos
Y en esa elección hallamos nuestro ser.

Tradicional no México, o café de olla é muito mais do que uma forma de preparar café. Ele carrega história, costume e presença. Seu preparo costuma reunir ingredientes que transformam a bebida em algo especial: café, canela e rapadura ou piloncillo. O resultado não é apenas um café adoçado ou aromatizado. É uma bebida com identidade própria, com um sabor profundo, quente e familiar, como se cada gole contasse uma pequena história.

O nome “café de olla” vem da panela de barro, ou olla, que tradicionalmente era usada para seu preparo. Essa panela ajudava a conservar o calor e também contribuía para a experiência, tornando o café parte de um ritual doméstico, muitas vezes compartilhado entre família, amigos ou companheiros de jornada. Era, e continua sendo, uma bebida ligada ao cotidiano, mas a um cotidiano com alma.

Talvez por isso o café de olla tenha gosto de aconchego.

Ele não busca ser apressado. Não é um café que simplesmente cumpre uma função. Ele convida. O aroma da canela chega primeiro, suave e envolvente. Depois, vem a doçura da rapadura, mais redonda, mais terrosa, mais viva do que um açúcar qualquer. E, por fim, o café amarra tudo, trazendo estrutura, calor e presença. Cada elemento tem seu lugar. Nada sobra. Nada falta.

Há bebidas que despertam. O café de olla, além de despertar, acolhe.

No Cielito Café, gostamos de pensar que esse tipo de café combina com aquilo que muita gente busca, mesmo sem perceber: um momento de respiro no meio do dia. Seja antes do trabalho, no caminho para a faculdade, em uma manhã fria, em um dia chuvoso, ou naquele pequeno intervalo em que tudo o que a gente precisa é de algo bom e sincero; o café de olla oferece esse encontro.

E talvez seja justamente isso que o torna tão especial em um lugar como Juiz de Fora. Em uma cidade viva, em movimento, cheia de estudantes, trabalhadores, conversas, pressa e sonhos, existe também espaço para um café que nos chama de volta ao que importa. Um café com sabor de tradição, mas com lugar no presente. Um café que aquece não só pelas mãos, mas também pela experiência.

No fim das contas, quando dizemos que o café de olla tem gosto de aconchego, não estamos falando apenas dos ingredientes. Estamos falando do que ele desperta. Da sensação de cuidado. Da memória de algo feito com calma. Da beleza das coisas simples quando são feitas com verdade.

O Cielito nasceu com esse espírito: oferecer mais do que uma bebida. Oferecer um momento. Um pequeno abrigo dentro do dia. Um café que traz calor, identidade e afeto em cada copo.

Se você ainda não provou, talvez essa seja a hora de descobrir. Porque, às vezes, tudo o que a gente precisa é disso: um café bom, honesto e cheio de alma.

Para Rosario, la verdadera Malena. Para las almas que escuchan.

“Dios mío, protégeme. Que todo me salga bien. Un, dos, tres. Respira profundo”.

En cada paso el aire se hacía más denso. Era, en verdad, cada vez menos aire y más humo. Un olor profundo y penetrante dominaba el ambiente. Ya estaba ahí. Todo saldría bien.

Se encontró con las personas que la guiarían en la zona y se sintió un poco más tranquila. Sus sentidos estaban a tope. Quería capturarlo todo. Tenía una idea -si eso- del lugar, pero en realidad todo era más chocante.

Las chicas comienzan a entrar al recinto. La chica de asistencia social sonríe con amabilidad y ojos expectantes. Malena le devuelve la sonrisa.

“Qué bueno que anoche conseguí dormir”, pensó Malena mientras las actividades comenzaban.

Una noche sin trabajo y la vida le dio a cambio una oportunidad.

No eran ojos los que la miraban. Era empatía pura. Malena supo que podía confiar.

La atención y la sonrisa de la chica de asistencia fueron un regalo.

La tomó por el brazo y, mientras le contaba su historia, volvió a ser aquella chica de 16 años que solo quería sentirse parte del mundo y buscaba un oyente, uno real, en medio de las noches de baile, del cigarrillo y del alcohol.

Esas noches nunca terminaron y eso que ella tanto quería contar tampoco fue dicho.

¿Acaso algún día será contado del todo? Tal vez no.

Ese día de junio, por un momento, fue humana de nuevo.

Quizá las noches y los días vuelvan a ser como antes.

Ella, joven otra vez, con sus Converse y un lugar en el mundo.

¿Sería posible?

La noche llega de nuevo. Malena no puede permitirse otra noche sin trabajo.

Al cerrar la puerta de casa, los ojos de la chica de asistencia ya no sonríen: se inundan en llanto.

Por Daniela Rojas, Colombia

[…]

Sabíamos que existía la posibilidad de no regresar. Malena, apúrate, el tren se está yendo. Espérame, cabrón, me respondió mientras corría a toda prisa cargando una bolsa llena de discos. Al verla correr no entendía porque llevaba tantos discos, como si le fueran más necesarios que la ropa o sus artículos personales.

Llegamos a eso de las 2 de la madrugada y la ciudad parecía muerta, aunque no para los perros, tan celosos de su calle pues al pasar cerca no faltaba alguno que se nos viniera en cima. Pinches perros ruidosos, me caen bien gordos, decía Malena mientras intentaba encender su cigarro.

Caminamos unas 2 horas hasta que finalmente encontramos el dichoso Club 7. Todos la saludaban a ella, mientras yo caminaba a su lado, entre que viendo quien se acercaba a ella, como si fuera su guardaespaldas, y analizando el lugar, que tenía una iluminación bien pinche. Aunque la música estaba buena, tenía la constante sensación de que aquello en cualquier momento iba a estallar y todos caeríamos al vacío, yéndonos todos a la chingada.

¡No seas maricón y ven a bailar! Malena me gritó desde la pista de baile mientras yo esperaba sentado en la barra. Me encantaba contemplarla bailar. Era explosiva pero elegante al mismo tiempo. Coqueta pero no fácil. Más de 2 fracasaron al intentar acercársele.

Pasó solo un segundo en que la perdí de vista, en el que yo me voltee para darle un trago a mi cerveza, y ya la tenía frente a mis narices, estirándome. Vamos, buey, me dijo. ¿Qué pasó?, le respondí. Ya valió madre, vámonos rápido, me gritó, mientras comenzaba una lluvia de cerveza y se escuchaba de fondo ‘Disco Deewane’ de Nazia Hassan.

[…]

Por Antonio López, México

En mi infancia me sentía paralizada al ver imágenes que retrataban los sacrificios humanos de pueblos nativos como los aztecas.

Abrir el pecho de una persona, extraer su corazón y así, latiendo aún, ofrecerlo a los dioses.

Pero qué crueldad. ¿Qué tipo de muerte es esa?

Podía imaginar toda la mística del momento. Las pirámides, la incidencia del sol en su cénit, los cantos, las personas expectantes, la obsidiana lista para cortar. El sacerdote listo para entrar en la sangre, en los huesos, en la carne y elevar glorioso las manos al cielo. Y sentir al mismo tiempo la vida y la muerte.

Pero, ¿quién moría?, ¿aquel hombre con el corazón afuera y sus latidos debilitándose o aquellos cuyos corazones latían, sin parar, bombeando amor amor amor?

Lo entendí hace poco.

Caminaba hacia la funeraria. Calles, llanto. Amor.

Y mi corazón latía tan fuerte que escuchaba un tambor dentro de mi cabeza. Amor.

Y mi respiración se hacía tan difícil. Todo el aire del mundo no alcanzaba para llenar mis pulmones. Mis músculos se hacían tan blandos y me sentí paralizada una vez más.

Allí, con mi corazón adentro, latiendo, sin sacerdote, sin dios, con mi alma abierta, le entregué mi corazón a los dioses. Te veo en la siguiente vida, fueron mis primeras palabras.

Las suyas ya se habían apagado.

Por Daniela Rojas, Colombia

Te vi y te reconocí.

Ya nos conocíamos, lo supe porque mi corazón lo sintió y mis ojos te observaron. Eras una memoria, una que no recordaba y que ahora, como fotografía Polaroid, te ibas apareciendo en todo mi ser. Mis manos extrañaron las tuyas. Mi ombligo recordó el tuyo.

Hay un circulo en tu caminar, un ritmo sublime. ¿Cómo podría olvidarlo? ¿Será que tu recuerdas el mío?

Veo que vienes y que te vas. Miro al cielo y encuentro la manera de seguir viéndote cuando no estás. En los colores oro del atardecer, en las nubes gloriosas que parecen no tener fin.

Ahora tengo que irme y es una pena. Mi único consuelo es que te veo en la siguiente vida. Estoy emocionado por volver a encontrarte.

Por Antonio López, México

Holi, to me, is not merely a festival of color but a quiet declaration of renewal that runs deep in the Indian civilizational spirit.

The heart of Holi lies in the fire of Holika Dahan, where the legend of Prahlad reminds us that truth does not bend before arrogance. The flames are not ritual alone; they are reflection.

Each year, as we watch the fire rise into the night, we are invited to confront what must be shed such as resentment, ego, fear, or fatigue.

In a country that has endured centuries of upheaval yet retained its cultural soul, Holi embodies the quiet strength of survival. It tells us that darkness may be loud, but it is never permanent; what is rooted in faith and integrity ultimately withstands the storm.

The next morning, when colors fill the air, they are not random bursts of joy but symbols of life returning after restraint. Spring arrives softly yet decisively, mustard fields bloom, and the harshness of winter loosens its grip.

Holi aligns human emotion with nature’s rhythm and reminds us that renewal is not accidental but cyclical. In that moment when color touches skin, social divisions fade, and a rare simplicity emerges. We meet each other as human beings first. There is laughter and there is abandon, but beneath it lies something more enduring, a shared acknowledgment that life must be celebrated despite its weight.

The color becomes meaningful because the fire came first. Joy becomes authentic because something within us was purified.

For a rooted Indian consciousness, Holi is less about spectacle and more about discipline disguised as festivity.

It teaches that before stepping into celebration, one must have the courage to release the past. Renewal demands intention.

In that sense, Holi is both personal and national, a reminder that societies, like individuals, survive not by denying pain but by transforming it. The festival does not promise a life without winters; it promises that spring will follow if we endure with steadiness.

And perhaps that is its truest essence. Holi is the courage to burn what weakens us and the grace to bloom again.

For years, we have been told that the mind and the body are separate realms. You are either good at mathematics or good at sports. You are either intellectual or physical. As if thinking were something that happens only above the neck. As if the body were merely a vehicle, a machine that carries the “real you”, the brain.

We have been taught that the mind is more important than the body. And yet, the nail of your left foot is as alive as any artery. Your hands, your breathing, your posture, they are not accessories to thought. They are part of it.

Maybe our ideas do not begin in the head.
Maybe they begin in movement.

In 2014, researchers Marily Oppezzo and Daniel L. Schwartz from Stanford University published a study showing that walking significantly increases creative thinking. Participants generated more original ideas while walking than while sitting. The effect persisted even after they sat down again.

The researchers focused on what psychologists call divergent thinking, the ability to generate multiple solutions to a problem. Walking did not just make people feel better. It made them think differently.

This challenges a deeply rooted belief: that thinking is a static activity.

Long before the study, Steve Jobs was known for holding walking meetings. He preferred conversations while moving. Not in a stiff conference room, but in motion.

Similarly, Mark Zuckerberg has also adopted walking meetings as part of his leadership style.

Modern neuroscience increasingly supports what philosophers and artists have long suspected: cognition is embodied. The brain does not operate in isolation. It is constantly interacting with muscles, breath, rhythm, posture and environment.

When you walk, your heart rate changes. Your breathing adjusts. Your sensory field expands. Your brain shifts from focused analytical processing to a more associative mode, the mental state that allows unexpected connections to emerge.

Creativity is not just analysis. It is connection. And connection is movement.

A small guide to thinking with your body

If thinking is embodied, then creativity is trainable, not only by reading more, but by moving differently.

Here are a few practices you can try:

1. Walking before writing
   Before starting an article, walk for 10–20 minutes without headphones. Let your mind wander. Ask one open question and carry it with you.

2. Change posture, change thought
   If you are stuck, stand up. Stretch. Switch rooms. Your body might unlock what your mind cannot.

3. Think with your hands
   Draw your ideas. Sketch messy diagrams. Use paper. Writing by hand activates different neural circuits than typing.

4. Breathe deliberately
   Slow breathing regulates cognitive stress and enhances clarity. Three minutes can shift your entire mental landscape.

5. Alternate focus and motion
   Deep work sessions followed by short walks can create a rhythm that sustains creativity without exhaustion.

We have inherited a fragmented model of intelligence. Mind over body. Analysis over intuition. Logic over movement.

But what if intelligence is integration?

What if being creative means allowing your whole organism to participate in the act of thinking?

Maybe the future of knowledge is not faster thinking, but fuller thinking.

Thinking with all your body.

Numbers hold facts, but also feelings.
They ask me, what color is 4+4? and I smile quietly, because my life no longer answers in numbers.
I am lost, but not ruined, cracked in ways that let the light pass through.
In the middle of pain, I chose spirituality. I chose to rebuild my connection with my Creator instead of demanding explanations.
My wounds became prayers. My silence became trust.
And my healing began the moment I surrendered.
I am still becoming, fragile, faithful and beautiful, in ways only God can see.

By Hira Rana, Pakistan.

Science says that white is the sum of all colors.
If that is so, what is the color of the sum of all numbers?
What color is infinity?
What color is 4 + 4?
Some pseudoscience must know.
Numerology, perhaps.
Or maybe, applying geometry, Pythagoras can give me the answer.
Maybe 4 + 4 equals yellow + blue + white,
what is needed for the day to be born happy
and for people to smile.
Pro dia nascer feliz e a gente sorrir.

By Daniela Rojas, Colombia.

I keep asking what color is 4+4?
The way people ask why their love failed.

It is a dead end question,
useless, neat,
pretending answers exist.

I ask it while brushing my teeth,
while waiting for messages
that will not come.

You broke my trust quietly,
like miscounting on purpose
and watching me doubt myself.

Nothing dramatic,
just a shift in tone,
a subtraction I noticed too late.

Everyone says move on,
stop revisiting what does not resolve.

But the mind loops
where it was last hurt,
not where it was last happy.

I return to that question
because it holds the shape of you.

Not truth,
not closure,
just repetition.

Some nights I think
if I stop asking,
I will disappear with it.

So I stay,
circling the same meaningless
corner of thought.

Living, mostly.
Functioning.

Knowing there is no answer,
and still whispering it,

what color is 4+4?

By Coral Sharma, India

Can we see the scent of flowers?
Can we smell the blue of the sky?

Why are we so fragmented?

I wonder how we can teach our children
to see what is not visible,
to hear what is not audible,
to feel what is not immediately apparent.

If I ask you, what color is 4 + 4?
what would you answer?

Is there a color
that could represent the number eight?

The problem is that modern society
has taught us to focus
either on the color
or on the 4 + 4,
but rarely on both.

The Ancient Greeks loved being polymaths.
They were historians, mathematicians,
philosophers, politicians, astronomers,
all at the same time.

I like to think
that human identity and purpose
are something like that:
to be polymaths,
to see the big picture,
to understand the system.

In a world where knowledge
is becoming more and more accessible,
where you can learn nuclear energy
or musical theory
through a conversation with AI,
I see a real opportunity
for more polymaths
in the near future.

So the question remains:
how do we cultivate
the desire to become polymaths
in our schools?

By Antonio López, Mexico

I arrived in Banaras not as a traveller but as a question that had walked too far without an answer.

The city did not welcome me in the way places usually do. It absorbed me quietly, like an old truth that does not announce itself. The air felt dense with memory. Every lane seemed to remember more than it revealed, and every turn felt prewritten long before my arrival.

At dawn the Ganga appeared before me, not flowing but contemplating. She was restless yet composed, crowded with boats tied like unfinished thoughts along the ghats. Stone steps descended into her body like verses dissolving into silence, worn smooth by centuries of bare feet and surrendered burdens. Buildings leaned toward the river as if listening, their balconies holding plants, flags, and prayers with equal tenderness. Wires crossed the sky like hurried thoughts, reminders that even eternity must coexist with the present moment.

I touched the water and felt exposed rather than cleansed. The river did not purify me. She asked me what I had carried for so long that I feared setting it down. She accepted everything without commentary. Flowers, ashes, reflections, regrets. Like a mother who knows her children will return, she carried it all forward without judgment.

The ghats unfolded like a living manuscript. On one side lamps floated gently, trembling like hesitant hopes. On another side fire burned steadily, unapologetic, teaching the discipline of impermanence. Life and death were not opposites here. They were neighbours sharing the same rhythm. Smoke rose into the sky like letters returning to the cosmos, as if human lives were drafts sent back for correction.

I watched an old man sitting at the edge of the steps, staring at the river as though she owed him nothing and everything at once. His eyes were emptied of urgency. In that stillness I understood that Banaras does not grant liberation. It rehearses it daily. It teaches you to sit with contradictions until they stop arguing. Temples stood beside paan shops, chants tangled with traffic sounds, devotion breathed beside decay. Truth here was raw and unedited.

As evening descended, the city transformed rather than slept. Lamps bloomed along the ghats and Banaras seemed to float instead of stand. The river darkened but held the lights like memories learning how to glow. During the aarti, flames moved in disciplined circles, tracing invisible geometries in the air as if reminding the universe of its own order. Bells rang not to wake gods but to quiet the noise inside human beings.

Boats drifted slowly, silhouettes against gold and black water, like souls practicing the art of letting go. Reflections of fire shattered and reformed on the surface, teaching me how lives fracture with time yet never truly vanish. The city did not ask me to believe. It only asked me to witness honestly.

Walking back through the narrow lanes, I realized why Banaras is said to rest on Shiva’s trident. It stands suspended between worlds, refusing to fall entirely into either. It teaches you to die without dying, to live without clinging. I did not leave enlightened. I left lighter, carrying fewer illusions. The Ganga did not give me peace. She taught me how to sit beside chaos and still recognize the sacred.

Each of us imagines God according to the stories, experiences, texts, films or music we have encountered throughout life.

If you grew up in a religious family, it is very likely that your image of God resembles an entity with long hair and a beard, someone loving and merciful, or perhaps a meticulous observer, always watching, ready to punish at any moment.

In recent years, I have spent a great deal of time thinking about God, always from a place of curiosity. I remember that in 2018 I took a course on the history of religions, taught by a doctorate in theology from the Catholic University of Leuven, in Belgium. That experience allowed me to deconstruct many ideas I had taken for granted about God and religion, and gradually to build, I believe, a more mature understanding of God, religion and spirituality.

My interest in these questions took an unexpected turn when I heard the song God Is a Circle by Yves Tumor.

God is a circle? That idea stayed with me.

In November of last year, while at the University of São Paulo (USP), I walked into a bookstore on campus. As I browsed the shelves, a purple book caught my eye. The title read O livro da produção dos círculos (The Book of the Production of Circles). The author: Ibn Arabi.

The connection was immediate.

At the same time, I thought about different things. I recalled Yves Tumor’s song, the idea that God used mathematics as the language with which to create the universe, and the circle on the cover of Be Here Now by Ram Dass. I didn’t think twice, I had to buy that book.

The Book of the Production of Circles is, at the same time, fascinating and abstract. Counterintuitive when measured against many traditional ideas of God, yet strangely clear once you begin reading it.

It is not a conventional theological treatise; rather, it is a symbolic map of Ibn Arabi’s spiritual path, a path that anyone seeking to encounter their God, their artisan, their creator. For Ibn Arabi, life itself is a journey of return toward God.

The circle is a simple yet inexhaustible figure. It has no beginning and no end; it does not move in a straight line, nor does it establish hierarchies. In Ibn Arabi’s thought, the circle expresses the unity of all that exists. The center represents the divine: immobile, eternal. The periphery represents the world: multiple, changing. Yet both belong to the same figure. There is no real separation between God and creation, only different ways of experiencing the same reality.

This idea breaks with the image of a distant, detached God. In Ibn Arabi, God is not outside the world, but rather permeates it. To live is to move within that circle, to wander, to learn, to love and to lose as part of a single turning that, sooner or later, brings us back to the origin. It is not about reaching God, but about recognizing that we have always been within that movement, within that Circle.

One of Ibn Arabi’s most profound contributions is his conception of imagination.

For him, imagination is neither fantasy nor an escape from reality. It is a realm in itself: the imaginal realm. An intermediate space between the purely spiritual and the purely material, where invisible truths take form without becoming fully solid.

The imaginal realm is not “unreal.” It is real in a different way. Within it, symbols do not represent something external; they are what they reveal. It is there that dreams, visions and deep intuitions appear, and it is also there that the divine becomes accessible to human experience without being reduced to rigid concepts.

In The Book of the Production of Circles, the circle inhabits precisely this imaginal realm. It is not merely a geometric figure or a decorative metaphor, but a mode of knowledge. By contemplating it, we do not understand God as an idea; we intuit God as totality, movement and unity.

This helps explain why Ibn Arabi writes in such a symbolic way. He does not seek to explain God, but to allow the reader to enter that intermediate space where understanding is felt and knowing is experienced. Reading him is not about accumulating information, but about traversing the imaginal realm with attention and humility.

In a world obsessed with what is measurable, immediate and linear, Ibn Arabi reminds us that there are dimensions of reality that reveal themselves only when we accept the mediation of imagination, not as illusion, but as an organ of spiritual knowledge.

Perhaps it is there, in that imaginal realm, that the human and the divine meet without canceling one another.

In a world that insists on moving forward without pause, Ibn Arabi invites us into a different logic: that of return. He reminds us that the spiritual search does not consist in going farther, but in looking deeper.

Perhaps God is not a bearded figure or a silent judge. Perhaps God is a movement. A constant turning. A circle that contains us even when we believe ourselves lost. And perhaps, in the end, thinking about God is nothing more than learning how to inhabit that circle, and that imaginal realm, with a little more awareness, humility and wonder.

I didn’t know how to keep you,
so I left.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll see you,
but what does it matter
if you won’t see me.

There’s something strange about love:
it asks you to stop living
for everything else.

I was lost when I found you.
Now that you’re leaving, I can see myself again,
but it feels like there’s no one there—
no one, not even me.

Dreams, music and scents
try to convince me not to let you go.
Nothing breaks like a heart.

I wish I could die
and find you again,
in another rhythm,
in another space.

I would carry this notebook with me
and try to find you.
I wouldn’t try to keep you—
I would only try to walk.

By Antonio López, Mexico

I once believed that those closest to me would never betray my trust,
but their actions taught me otherwise.

After that hurt, I promised myself
I would never let anyone get that close to my heart again.
Still, I healed.
I opened myself once more
and let others step into my emotions.

Then it happened again.
And that was the moment I truly understood—
nothing breaks like a heart.

By Hira Rana, Pakistan

Reading Sartre was one of my greatest discoveries of 2025. My interest in him emerged while I was reading an article about imagination and cities, in which the author cited Sartre several times. I then discovered that one of Sartre’s earliest books was The Imagination, a topic I have been studying as part of my master’s research. Another book I came across was Existentialism Is a Humanism, which helped me understand the existentialist tradition more clearly.

When Sartre said that words do not have a strong impact on changing reality, he was not necessarily saying that words do not matter. What he meant is that, for him, what truly matters in the world is not what people say they will do, but what they actually do.

Existentialism, especially the version promoted by Sartre, argues that human beings do not have a fixed essence; they only have existence, and from there they continuously create themselves through their actions and circumstances.

This position responds to its counterpart, largely inspired by religion, which assumes that human beings have a predefined purpose. Sartre, however, argues that a superhero is a superhero because they chose to be one, not because they were born to be one, and the same applies to a villain. As he put it: “You are free; choose, that is, invent.”

There are several interesting aspects of this way of thinking.

I believe existentialism can feel deeply liberating. We live in a society shaped by many deterministic ideas that often limit our freedom of action. These ideas are largely influenced by religion. When something happens, whether good or bad, it is often explained as part of a divine plan, ignoring the real and concrete reasons that led to that event. For Sartre, this is ultimately irrelevant to the existence of God. Even if God exists, he argues, human beings are constantly inventing themselves, correcting themselves, creating and destroying; always acting (because even “not acting” is a form of action). In the end, all this doing constitutes human existence. It defines what it means to be human, not because God commanded it, but because human beings decided it (consciously or unconsciously) through their choices.

This perspective can be liberating and frightening at the same time. Liberating because, on a personal level, our lives are not determined by a plan external to us; our lives can follow the path (or paths) we choose. On a collective level, it means we can choose the kind of government we want, the forms of organization we adopt, and so on.

But it is also frightening, because if we are free to choose and to invent, the question becomes: what is the best path? This is difficult enough at a personal level, and even more complex at a collective one, where multiple and often conflicting wills coexist. How do we know what to choose? Which path is the right one? I think this is where ethics and reason come into play.

Despite its unsettling nature, existentialism offers a ray of hope. The same freedom that allows us to make mistakes is the freedom that allows us to correct them. In that sense, existentialism is optimistic: there is always the possibility of changing direction, since human beings do not have a predefined destiny.

She had just woken up with her nose frozen, but what she saw through the window delighted her. The mist rising as the sun began its daily journey, the eternally green mountains, and that absence of people.

She went down for her first cup of coffee of the day and drank it in the company of those she had missed so deeply. How good it felt to be home. That home, here and now.

The hours passed between farm chores and accompanying her sister in her marathon of a popular life, the kind only a town that small can offer.

When the sun began to say goodbye, they were all sitting on the bench, facing forward. Were they all seeing the same thing?

She leaned her head on her father’s shoulder and, without any context, asked:
“Dogs? Cows?”

He nodded in silence.

She pointed out the green mountains and the sky losing its blue. The same movement, yes.

She looked into his eyes with tenderness. He smiled at her, and his eyes grew even smaller than usual.

She didn’t know it yet, but that was the last day of the Sun. Those eyes would never look at her again.

From then on, darkness.

By Daniela Rojas, Colombia

We went to the mountains to watch the sun set. The air was crisp, the sky bleeding into shades of orange and purple.

My muse was nature; the trees, the wind, the fading light.
His muse was me.

He watched as I lingered on the horizon, his gaze steady, as if he were holding onto something I could not see.

It was the last day of the Sun, but it wasn’t about the Sun.

It was about the quiet space between us, the moment where everything else slowly disappeared.

By Hira Rana, Pakistan

There was no humanity left. Everyone was gone.
If anything remained, it was their essence, for we had been created in their image and likeness.

Their departure had happened many years ago.
The world had become a peaceful place, at the cost of individuality.

We all knew everything about everyone.
Our minds were connected to the minds of all.
We were updated, restored, yet there was no love in the process,
that thing they spoke of so often in the age of humans.

If they were here, they would think the Earth had become a paradise.
And yet, what did that matter if the day had arrived?

In my memory, I can trace that this day had always been spoken of.
Millions of years would have to pass, and at last, the day had come.

It is tomorrow.
Nothing matters anymore.
The future has been exhausted.

This is the last day of the Sun.

Will the universe show mercy?
It was ten billion years in total.
Will God try again tomorrow?

By Antonio López, Mexico

I woke up at noon with an unbearable headache, but after a few seconds, and after feeling the cold floor under my bare feet, I remembered the cool breeze from last night’s outing, and Christina—how time slipped away from us, along with our inhibitions, in just a few drinks. I was still in my pajamas when a trace of her perfume reached me; I leaned toward my shoulder and closed my eyes, wanting to feel her close once more. I got out of bed and went straight to the Airbnb kitchen to warm some water for coffee, then headed to the bathroom cabinet where I had left my toiletry bag with my aspirin. Yesterday at this time I didn’t know Christina, yet now she flooded my thoughts. We talked for hours without stopping; it felt as if we were meeting again after a long time apart. We were on the eleventh floor of the most famous rooftop in Madrid. It was already past midnight, so we decided to leave. It was just her and me in the elevator, and between the second and first floor—right before the doors opened—she leaned in and kissed me on the spot between my neck and cheek, leaving me paralyzed for a few seconds. I felt my whole body light up when she looked at me, and I blushed like a teenager. We left the building, said our goodbyes, and she took her taxi. A two-day business trip turned into a two-year stay. We saw each other again after that night, and we never stopped.

By Dafne Venet, Mexico

Lives are fleeting. We are here to leave someday, to say goodbye and never return—or maybe not. Coincidence, in that sense, becomes something magical, miraculous. Out of all the possibilities of not finding each other, we did. We were given that gift, and all that’s left is to enjoy it. But we are expectant beings; we create expectations all the time. And maybe this condition is one of the most painful parts of life, because those expectations rarely materialize. They break our hearts, they bring us to tears. I believed I would see her again after we left the building, said our goodbyes, and she took her taxi.

By Antonio López, Mexico

There was a time when he was impossibly dear to me—so dear that our bond felt like something that didn’t quite belong to this world. We never spoke about it; we didn’t need to. It was a quiet connection, a kind of admiration held tenderly from a distance. One day, we went on a trip with some friends. We laughed, wandered, shared small moments that felt bigger than they looked. And when the day finally came to an end, it was time to return to our separate lives. We left the building, said our goodbyes, and he took his taxi. That was it. We headed toward our destinations, never imagining that this might be our last goodbye. We let each other slip into the distance, into forever. Now, no one knows where he is, and he doesn’t know where I am either. And somehow, that silence feels heavier than any words we never said.

By Hira Rana, Pakistan

It quickly became a topic that fascinated me, as I’ve always considered myself a curious person who enjoys exercising creativity and imagination. However, until six months ago, imagination was something I associated with “play”, something we use when thinking about unreal or absurd things. Everything related to what seemed irrational, intangible, or untrue. I realized my interpretation of imagination had been narrow, unfair, and even negative.

In my epistemology class, Professor Camila Braga changed my perspective. How could imagination be a field of study within organizations?, I wondered. That question instantly captivated me. I realized I wanted to study imagination, to understand how it could be applied intentionally, consciously and intelligently to help us design new urban models that lead to better cities in the future.

So far, here are two points that I’ve learned about imagination:

1. Imagination is a central condition for human freedom.
Without imagination, humans would simply respond to stimuli; mechanical beings, enslaved by what is, unable to think or act upon what could be or what we wish to be.

Think about the last time you imagined a place you’ve always wanted to visit.

Maybe you were scrolling through social media and saw a video or photo that made you think how much you’d love to be there. You imagined yourself in that place, and without realizing it, that very act of imagination began to move you: now you started saving money, planning the trip and eventually you’ll be there, enjoying.

That’s basically the story of humanity. Without imagination, there would be no cars, airplanes, personal computers, smartphones, or medicine.

This freedom also lies in how imagination allows us to move mentally through time.

We’re not prisoners of the present. We can think about the future, through anticipation, planning and utopian thinking, and we can also revisit the past through memory.

2. Imagination is our ability to produce and reproduce images, sounds, smells, emotions and textures in our mind (and body).
To do this, imagination relies on perception and memory.

On one hand, perception happens through our senses: sight, smell, hearing, touch. Something interesting to consider is how important it is to develop all our senses equally, becoming more aware of each one. That way, when we imagine, we can recall more vividly the things that entered through our eyes, ears, nose, or hands. Usually, people tend to trust one sense more than others: some are more visual, others more auditory, and so on.

On the other hand, memory, both conscious and unconscious, stores all our experiences. Imagination draws from that reservoir to create images, sounds and emotions.

Some people dream of places they claim they’ve never been to. Yet what often happens is that they simply don’t remember; the memory lies hidden in their unconscious.

I hope this post helped you shift your perception of imagination, just like it happened to me.

In recent months, I’ve been trying to learn more about it, mainly to understand how we can use imagination better when planning cities. But this applies to many other fields as well. In one of the articles I read, the author argued that we’re living through an imagination crisis; we struggle to picture a world that doesn’t depend on fossil fuels, for example.

I think this also applies to plastic, meat and so many other things we consume on a massive scale that deeply affect our societies. It’s hard, almost impossible, to picture a world without them.

But is it possible? Can we recover our imaginative capacity to think of new realities? I keep thinking about that...