Within the depths of my being, I am composed of a multitude of voices, each clamoring for attention. This place, this sanctuary I have carved with my own hands, serves as a well where these voices find refuge. Here, they reveal themselves, whispering secrets and truths that often remain hidden.

But if I am different in this realm, if the words I pen here diverge from the reality I inhabit, does that make me a deceiver? I cannot say for certain. Perhaps it makes me a different kind of honesty, one that unveils the depths of my soul through the art of expression. There was a time when writing filled me with shame, as if the act itself was forbidden. Few of my peers dared to be honest about their true selves, and so I discarded countless pages, regretting the ink that stained them when daylight arrived.

Nights turned into a relentless pursuit of self-discovery, my eyes bearing the weight of sleepless endeavors. But now, weariness has settled upon me, and the opinions of others hold little significance. It is as if I have reached a state of exhaustion that transcends shame and self-loathing. This weariness, perhaps, is a mark of adulthood, a sign that I have traversed the boundaries of societal expectations.

In this state of detachment, I wear a rehearsed smile, following a routine that has become second nature. I have ventured so far into the depths of my being that the other side has consumed me. Here, the light may be dim, but it is enough to leave behind the burdens that once weighed me down. And so, I continue to write, unabashedly sharing my thoughts and emotions, allowing the poetry within me to flow through my veins and burst forth into a myriad of verses.

Copyright © Beatriz Esmer