The thoughts crash against the shores of consciousness, relentless waves seeking refuge in the crevices of our minds. Stomach churns—a tempest of hunger and longing, a primal dance of need and desire. Blood flows, rivers of life tracing ancient maps within our veins, carrying whispers of forgotten tales.

Words come—or don’t—they hang like dewdrops on morning grass, fragile and transient. The heart, oh, the heart—it beats, a celestial drum, its rhythm echoing through chambers of memory. It hurts, for love is both balm and blade. It holds—all that can ever free us from this magical mess of meaning.

Honesty, the Cosmic Key: When you are honest with yourself, you unravel the universe. The strangeness of separation dissolves—the illusion that we are islands adrift in cosmic seas. Blood spilled in distant lands, ink on the parchment of history, cries of ancestors echoing in our bones. Ignorance and arrogance—our twin shadows—they dance their waltz, blinding us to the shared tapestry of existence.

Consumption and Hunger: We gorge on life’s offerings, insatiable hunger gnawing at our souls. Lost and found-ness—we stumble through the labyrinth of existence, seeking breadcrumbs of purpose. Squirming, wriggling, we trace our way back to being found. The heaviness our bodies hold—the weight of years, of memories—dissipates when we stand before our own souls, naked and unafraid.

The Rare Encounter: This doesn’t happen often enough—the communion with our essence. Where do we go from here? We can go in—plunge into the depths of introspection—but beware the traffic jams of the mind. Thoughts honk and collide, a cacophony of doubts and echoes. Or we can go out—step into the world’s bustling streets. There, the homeless beg at every intersection, their eyes mirrors reflecting our shared fragility.

Nothing Much, Yet Everything: All you’ve got is nothing much, and yet it’s everything. You offer it—the crumbs of your existence—to the hungry souls you encounter. Is it hurting or helping? The line blurs, like twilight merging day into night. The sum of all things found and felt—a ledger of moments, etched in stardust. You’re old, yet your heart beats with the fervor of youth. This old feeling—the ache of living—it’s your compass, pointing toward liberation.

Branches Breaking Our Hearts: And so, you journey. Not away, but inward—to free yourself, which is us. Whatever branches are breaking our hearts, we prune them with courage. The cosmic gardener, tending to the garden of souls. The stars watch, silent witnesses, as you unravel, as we unravel—the threads of existence, the knots of separateness. We are the unraveling, the becoming, the poetry whispered between breaths.

With reverence, A seeker of constellations

Copyright © Beatriz Esmer

Dry pastel art