My window of life stands open, a portal to existence. Through its transparent pane, I observe the world unfolding, like a silent film projected onto the retinas of countless eyes. Faces pass by, each a fleeting chapter in this grand narrative. And as I watch, I am both observer and participant, caught in the delicate dance of existence.
Who am I? I ask, tracing the contours of my own reflection. A mosaic of memories, dreams, and whispered secrets. A vessel for emotions that ebb and flow like tides against the shore. But beyond the mirror, who are you? A fellow traveler, perhaps, navigating your own labyrinth of thoughts and desires.
Who must I be? The question echoes through the corridors of my mind. Must I wear masks, don disguises to fit the roles assigned by circumstance? Or can I strip away pretense, reveal the raw essence beneath? To write these words with pure purity, unfiltered by fear or expectation.
My words, like paper boats, float past the mountains of doubt. They sail on the currents of vulnerability, seeking distant shores where hearts resonate. And when they reach the sea, they echo—a symphony of syllables, a chorus of longing. For poetry is my air, the oxygen that sustains my soul.
My mind, an open door, swings wide to invite inspiration. It welcomes muses and midnight whispers alike. And from this threshold, I step into the vast expanse of imagination. The pen becomes my compass, tracing constellations of emotion across the parchment sky.
Speak out, urges the wind. Set these words free. And so I do. I release them like lanterns into the night, their glow illuminating hidden corners of existence. The gap between thought and expression narrows, bridged by ink and intention. The gab—the gift of language—flows through me, a river of possibility.
And in this act of creation, I find my ecstasy. Not in fame or fortune, but in the alchemy of syllables. For writing what I feel is the greatest pleasure—the communion of heartbeats across time and space. So, let the window remain open, let the words spill forth like stardust. We are all poets, weaving our verses into the fabric of eternity.

©️ Beatriz Esmer