While I was fighting a virus,
cowards used fireworks as weapons
against firefighters, emergency workers, and law enforcement.
Not to celebrate.
But to harm.

That is not a party.
That is violence with fuses.

In America.
In Venezuela.
In streets where sirens now drown out music.

A woman was fighting a violent ex.
A cyclist lost his life in a fatal fall.
And elsewhere people were laughing
as if no one was bleeding.

I was lying still.
Not broken.
Recovering.

But I saw everything.

The world does not change through noise.
It changes through those who remain standing
when the masks fall.

Like a ballerina on a staircase.
No stage.
No applause.
Only balance — against everything.

But hear this clearly:
without each other, this will never stop.
Without eyes that refuse to look away.
Without voices that refuse to be silent.
Without people who say: this ends here.

Violence does not end by itself.
It ends when we stand together
and refuse to call it normal.

I am not back because the year started.
I am back because I chose the moment.

Not later.
Not tomorrow.
Now.

The Return of the Ballerina.
Not to dance.
But to stand — together.

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