“But my dear,” he said, “you are not a story.” You are not a refuge, a tale to escape the world’s worries. You are not crafted to be a mere display, a set of words to elegantly sway. You are not the triumph of good over evil, nor a fable of light against dark. You are a thunderstorm, a symphony of beauty and fear, a balance so perfect, kind yet fierce, painfully real, my dear.

You are not a chapter to be read and closed, not a narrative that’s easily disposed of. You are the rawness of truth, the complexity of life’s design, the depth of emotions that intertwine. You are not a story, not a book on a shelf, you are the thunder, the lightning, the tempest itself.

You are not a tale to be told, but a force to be reckoned with, a presence that cannot be controlled. You are the essence of reality, the embodiment of strength and vulnerability. You are not a story, my dear, but a living, breathing testament, a thunderstorm, uncontainable and magnificent.

Copyright © Beatriz Esmer