(A dim light. A man stands center stage, arms slightly outstretched, as if holding invisible burdens. His voice is quiet at first, but steady.)

Oh soul…
You worry too much.
Your arms—
they ache not from emptiness,
but from treasures you’ve mistaken for chains.

I have carried myself in every thought,
like a man dragging his own shadow
through a desert of mirrors.
Afraid to be seen.
Afraid to be me.
So I became half—
half a man, half a truth,
half a breath in a world that demands lungs full of fire.

And still…
I called it enough.

What power must I summon to awaken whole?
To rise not as a draft,
but as the final version of a dream I’ve never dared to write?

I have worn sorrow like a second skin,
called it wisdom.
But what is this lucidity,
if not a wound that never closes?

I was absurd.
I am absurd.
Like all men who barter their grief for rage,
who mistake silence for strength,
who wear smiles like armor
and call it living.

We give what we do not have.
We offer love with trembling hands,
truth with broken tongues.
And still we pretend—
pretend the damage is decoration,
pretend the cracks are character.

But to find oneself…
is to open the vault.
To give what we do have—
the fear, the longing, the unfinished prayers.

To solve ourselves
is not to become perfect,
but to see clearly.
To name the obvious.
To say:
Here I am. This is what I carry.

And yet—
why would I dare?

Peace…
Peace was never my ambition.
Not when the abyss offered such a thrilling view.
Not when cowardice dressed itself as caution
and whispered,
Stay small. Stay safe.

Oh soul…
You worry too much.
But maybe—
just maybe—
you are heavy
because you are full.

(He lowers his arms. A pause. A breath. The light fades.)

©️ Beatriz Esmer