In the silence of my soul, I weave words with threads of my own noise. Each syllable, a whispered echo of forgotten dreams. The ink spills from my heart, staining the parchment with secrets and confessions.

I forget about my mistakes—the stumbles, the missteps—because I am poor of pride. Humility wraps around me like a tattered cloak, and I walk barefoot through the corridors of memory.

The stories of others become my compass. I am lost in their laughter, their tears, their unspoken longings. Their lives etch themselves upon my skin, leaving faint scars that tell of shared humanity.

And so, I write. Not for fame or fortune, but to bridge the gaps between souls. To find solace in the spaces where words fail, and silence speaks louder than any eloquence.

In this quiet dance of ink and paper, I discover my truest self—a wanderer, a listener, a weaver of tales. And perhaps, just perhaps, my own story will find its place among the constellations of countless others.

May your silence continue to birth beautiful words, and may your heart remain open to the symphony of stories that surround us all. 

Copyright © Beatriz Esmer

Dry Pastel Art