My soul is a weathered manuscript, its pages inscribed with the whispers of forgotten moments carried by life’s winds. Chapped fingers, marked by time and labor, trace the edges of joy and sorrow, leaving ancient runes upon the fabric of memory. Even the sting of burnt tastebuds from hasty sips of coffee speaks of life’s complexities—pleasures that scorch if consumed too quickly.

Through stumbles and bruises, each fall etches resilience into my being. The past flows beneath my skin, mingling triumph with defeat. Time softens scars but never erases them, stitching fragments of memory into an imperfect but beautiful whole. Our vulnerability—flushed cheeks and tender touches—reflects the raw truth of humanity.

Memory is a keeper, unearthing remnants we thought discarded, like old letters found in dusty attics. The residue of cold coffee recalls mornings spent pondering life’s mysteries, and touch bridges past to present, unearthing vulnerabilities we long hid. These sensory traces tie us to the depths of our authentic selves.

So, let the ordinary moments unfold—gusts of wind, cold coffee, and lingering memories. These are the chronicles of the soul, where scars and whispers ink an extraordinary tale of human existence.

©️ Beatriz Esmer