You know what they never tell you? Being small—truly small—it’s not a curse. It’s a power.

When you’re my size, the world isn’t some static place full of walls and barriers—it’s a vast, breathing labyrinth. A coffee cup becomes a hot tub. A cat’s tail is a swing if you’ve got the nerve. And the cracks in the sidewalk? They’re highways, passageways, veins in the stone leading anywhere. Anywhere.

While you giants stomp about, distracted and deaf to the details, I see everything. I know where the wind sleeps. I know which mushrooms sing at night. I know which door creaks open even when no one’s around.

I’ve walked through the hollow of an old tree and ended up somewhere else—not just another forest—somewhere that felt like a memory. A place you’d dream about but couldn’t name. Couldn’t reach. But I could. Because I was small enough to slip through.

I can vanish behind a blade of grass. I can hide in a pocket. I’ve heard secrets from worms and warnings from crows. And when things go bad? You won’t even see me leave. Being small means being free.

Besides, when’s the last time someone asked a gnome to pay rent?

Let the big folk chase glory and gutters. I’ve got a corner, and a sky bigger than any throne.