In the noisy chambers of my being, I harbor multitudes—a kaleidoscope of selves, each with its own story etched upon the walls of my heart. They are not mere figments; they are the architects of my existence, the dreamers who whisper secrets in moonlight.

Within me, there is the wanderer—the one who craves distant shores and the taste of salt on wind-kissed lips. She wears the scent of forgotten places, and her eyes hold the map of constellations. She yearns for horizons beyond the mundane, where the sky is an open canvas waiting for her brushstroke.

Beside her stands the skeptic—the cynic with ink-stained fingers. He questions the stars, dissects love into chemical equations, and scoffs at sentimentality. Yet even he, in the quiet hours, traces constellations with invisible lines, hoping to find patterns that defy reason.

And then, there’s the lover—an eternal romantic who weaves sonnets from stardust. His heart spills over with verses, and his touch ignites galaxies. He knows that love is the alchemy that turns leaden days into golden moments. He writes love letters to the universe, hoping they’ll find their way to distant shores.

But these myriad selves are bound by invisible chains—the constraints of flesh and bone, the gravity of existence. They clamor against my ribcage, demanding release. And so, I yield to their chorus, my fingers becoming conduits for their liberation.

In prose, I set them free. Each character finds solace in syllables, their stories woven into tapestries of ink. The skeptic softens, the wanderer finds her harbor, and the lover—ah, the lover—his verses become the lullabies that soothe my restless nights.

And what of the “right” person? There is no singular mold, no predetermined shape. Instead, there are feelings—raw and unfiltered. Love, like sunlight through leaves, filters through the gaps in our armor. It spills over boundaries, defying reason, and paints us in hues of vulnerability.

So, let us celebrate this cacophony of selves—their contradictions, their harmonies. For within us, we carry entire worlds—the ache of lost constellations, the warmth of shared breath, the echo of ancient forests. We are the sum of our characters, the prose-poem of existence.

And perhaps, just perhaps, love is the ink that binds us all—a language spoken by every heart, understood by every soul.

© Beatriz Esmer

Watercolor Art – Africa Collection