ODE TO THE ANTIFRAGILE LEADER, THE ONE WHO LOVES PROSPERITY

 ODE TO THE ANTIFRAGILE LEADER, THE ONE WHO LOVES PROSPERITY

He is not the one who resists. He is the one who dances on the cracked rock, the one who knows that the ground is not firm, but alive, that moves, that breathes uncertainty and generates futures like seeds. In his pockets he does not carry answers, but questions with wings, and instead of walls, he builds bridges of light.

Look at his crown: it is not gold, it is nature that blooms, petals of doubt that turn, that open, that invent the wind. Each cog of the wheel is a new verse, each leaf, a map without north. Because the antifragile is not afraid of getting lost: he knows that chaos is ink, and he or she, a poet.

Roots: Under his feet, the earth is not mute: it screams in tongues of flame. The roots he weaves are not to sit on, but to burn the old and feed what has no name yet. He does not store provisions; sows optionalities, children of risk and audacity, that grow where others see only darkness.

The world offers you storms, chaos and uncertainties, antifragile leadership invites them to dance. It is not madness; it is alchemy: it transforms fear into curiosity, error into compass, the fall into a new way of flying. The whirlwinds that surround you are not enemies: they are accomplices, spirals of energy of a game where the rules are written with tenderness on wet walls.

Look for them where others flee. They are those who embrace the unknown like a lover in the night. They say: the best book is the one I have not read. They do not preach certainties; they sow fertile doubts, and instead of monuments, they leave traces of light — ephemeral, yes, but sufficient — so that the next dissident knows that the path exists, even if it is not on the map.

Don't let them talk to you about resistance, Resistance is static, a museum of what could have been. Talk about antifragility: this art of breaking into a thousand pieces and discovering that each fragment is a mirror, a door, a beginning.

Because the future is not inherited, it is not predicted: it is burned, it is sung, it is painted with nails on the back of life.