The man is an enigma that walks on two feet, an abyss that thinks, a creature suspended between the mud from which he was made and the stars he contemplates.

There is no brief answer that contains him, because he himself is an endless question.

He is born naked, ignorant of himself, wrapped in tears, but with a universe to build.

From the first breath, he already begins to forget who he was before he arrived.

And so he launches into existence, sometimes as if he knows the way, sometimes with his eyes blindfolded, always searching for something he cannot even name.

Man is not just flesh.

He is memory and desire, impulse and faith, a constant contradiction.

He can embrace with tenderness and kill with coldness.

He can build cathedrals with his hands and destroy with a word.

He loves, but fears loving.

He believes, but doubts.

He fights, but sometimes does not know why.

He suffers for what he does not understand, and many times destroys himself trying to find meaning.

He has an original wound: knowing he is finite, knowing he will die.

This awareness of his mortality is what has made him human,

but also what has condemned him to live with anxiety,

to flee from himself among distractions, conquests, possessions, masks.

Man has created gods in his own image,

has written sacred books and has committed atrocities in their name.

He has loved with such brutal intensity that he has crossed borders, seas, entire lives for a gesture, for a caress.

But he has also fled from love, because loving reminds him of how vulnerable he is.

He sometimes prefers to dominate rather than surrender, to possess rather than be possessed.

He has a body, yes, but also a soul.

And in the depths of his soul, there is an echo — an echo that sometimes calls him by his true name,

one he does not remember, but which awakens him on the quietest nights,

when everything is dark and there is no one else.

In that moment, man stops being a role, stops being a father, son, worker, lover…

and only he remains, naked in front of the inner mirror, wondering if he has lived or just passed through life.

Man is his story, but he is also what he tries to be beyond it.

He is what remains silent when everyone speaks, what he thinks while smiling,

what he imagines when he closes his eyes,

and what he denies when someone looks at him too deeply.

He can give himself completely or close himself like a fortress.

He can create beauty with his hands and poetry with his wounds.

He can be an angel or a beast.

He can be everything he fears and everything he dreams.

But he will never be simple.

Because man is a path.

And everything in him — his shadow, his desire, his ...