For most of my twenties, I believed only in what could be measured. Raised within Catholicism, I slowly stepped away from faith—partly as an act of protection, partly as opposition. I learned to trust only the tangible, the visible, the provable. Atheism became a way to reclaim authorship over my own narrative. Yet, in my early thirties, something shifted—quietly, without spectacle.

During the pandemic in Sydney, in a time strangely suspended between fear and stillness, I began to walk for hours along the ocean. Those walks became a form of meditation. In the vastness of the sea, the repetition of waves, and the weight of silence, I started listening differently. I began writing. Remembering. Questioning. For the first time, silence was not empty—it was luminous.

My father had always spoken to me about the cosmos, about balance, about the invisible orders that sustain life. As a child, I heard his words without fully understanding them. Years later, standing before the Pacific, his voice returned as memory rather than instruction. I began to sense that light itself carries memory—that landscapes remember us as much as we remember them.

Upon returning to Colombia, I traveled through rainforests, deserts, mountains, and oceans, not in search of answers, but of presence. I studied the quiet geometry of botanicals, the intelligence of ecosystems, the way light alters perception and how color resonates within the body. I became attentive to small revelations: the silence before dawn, the shadow as a form of writing, the way leaves hold time. What once felt abstract or esoteric revealed itself as intimate and precise. Everything spoke, yet nothing needed to explain itself.

Cosmos was born from this listening.

This project is not a document of nature, but a dialogue with it. An attempt to photograph not what is seen, but what is felt when vision slows down. Through vernacular photography gathered during my journeys, I seek to register moments where light becomes language, where memory becomes surface, where silence becomes presence. The images do not aim to describe—they aim to resonate.

For me, beauty within Cosmos is not ornamental or subjective. It is a form of truth. A quiet frequency that exists both within and beyond us. It is found in symmetry and fracture, in absence as much as in abundance. Beauty here is not an idea—it is a state of awareness.

Throughout history, artists, mystics, and scientists have tried to name the same mystery through different vocabularies. We have advanced in knowledge, yet the most essential questions remain intact: Where do we come from? What binds us? What consciousness inhabits matter? In an era saturated with noise, certainty, and manufactured narratives, Cosmos proposes another pace: slowness, doubt, contemplation.

This work does not seek to replace belief systems nor confront them directly. Instead, it moves beneath them—toward what precedes language: light, rhythm, breath, memory, silence. It separates the failure of institutions from the persistence of meaning. From the undeniable fact that we are woven into something vast, ordered, fragile, and still largely unknowable.

Cosmos is ultimately an offering. A gesture of gratitude toward what cannot be fully understood. It is an invitation to pause, to look inward through what lies outward, to remember that we are not outside of nature—we are one of its quiet expressions. Not merely observers, but participants in a continuum that began long before us and will continue long after we are gone.