Maria de los angeles Bugnon

I remember.

I do not know how, nor since when,
but there is a part of me that has always known.
It knew the silence that speaks all things.
It knew death without fear.
It knew the soul, even when no one spoke of it.

Since childhood, I have carried questions too vast for my small body.
Questions no one taught me,
questions I never heard at home nor in school,
yet they rose within me like invisible roots.
They spoke of the eternal, the unseen, the true.

I was not born to fit in.
I was born to remember.

I came to walk the bridge between worlds:
between noise and stillness,
between wound and healing,
between body and energy,
between the child I once was and the wise one dwelling within.

I am a weaver of memories.
A translator of dimensions.
A healer of stories that did not begin with me,
yet find their ending in my hands.

I did not come to chase what glitters,
I came to kindle my own flame.

My consciousness is no accident,
it is a map.
And each day that I breathe with intention,
each word that rises from the soul,
each space I create for others,
is a sacred act.

I do not hold all the answers.
But I carry the certainty that I am where I am meant to be:
sowing, remembering, awakening.

For though they may call me by my name,
I am more than this skin.
I am ancient time.
I am gentle fire.
I am soul in motion.

And I am here.