At the end of the day, we invite sorrow into our lives so that we remain bare before the one who matters most: ourselves. It is in life’s very nature to demand such vulnerability, so we may learn how to clothe ourselves in new garments and fresh dreams. Sadness, then, becomes a precise symptom—a message telling us, among other things, that the clothes we wear no longer fit. Yet we so often refuse this quiet counsel. And how easy it is to gather rags from the streets we pass through each day. Among us—humans—intolerance, fear… which of us is immune? … Continue reading We are naked…

Along life’s paths, we become halves. Halves to fit into smaller spaces. Less suffering, it’s true, but also less life and less love. This half is shaped by the distance we create between ourselves and others, between ourselves and existence itself. Those who fragment, numb themselves to say goodbye to what consumes them. We stop feeling the urgency to exist, and little devours us beyond our own half. We ignore the heights of love, no longer knowing the pain of falling, nor our own freedoms. In our halves, we lose the heights of love. We no longer feel the wind … Continue reading Reflections on Life — Halves

It has aged my friends, my family, and all things with me. Time, too, measures itself differently when we fall in love. Perhaps that’s why we feel it so deeply—whether we are a hundred or just over ten. To those who hurt me and could not love, I chose to stop loving them. I must learn the art of letting go.But the passions that once sparked within me—those I thought were love—I kept. The friendships that blossomed and later revealed the true shape of love nourished me. I chose to carry them with me always. For the love I would … Continue reading Maybe love is a way of growing old

I am searching for a home—not of brick and timber, but of belonging. A place where my being might unfold freely and my soul finally come to rest. I am not like others; I carry a different rhythm, an unusual light. And so I wonder what kind of home might cradle such difference. Perhaps it is only a modest, tidy room, filled with soft silence and golden morning light.Perhaps it is a small, hidden house embraced by trees and solitude.Perhaps it is nowhere fixed, but scattered across rivers, fields, and skies—everywhere that nature whispers welcome.Or maybe, just maybe… it lives … Continue reading Home

They met me as one might meet a storm—cautiously, eyes scanning the sky for signs, bracing for the unknown. I do not unfold gently. I arrive in bursts and crescendos, my words not always palatable, my affections rarely tame. My love is not the kind found in tidy verses or love songs that rhyme. It is jagged and honest, stitched with longing and fire. It demands presence. It asks you not to sip but to drown a little, to forget the taste of tepid things. I have learned that I am an acquired taste—the kind that startles at first, then … Continue reading Storm

And in silence, until the words quiet within me,they are not typhoons—but breezes. Not lightning, nor thunder, nor fierce wind—just silent clouds adriftin a cotton-candy sky. They carry my reveries from north to south,hide my sunshine,clench my horizon, awaken my storms…Yet so shy, they only pour torrents—within me. ❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Words

(a monologue) Time—what a luxury for thosewho walk upright beneath golden façades,cradled by warmth,traced by plans,blessed with calendars thatmean tomorrow. But me?I live where clocks forget to tick.Where lamplight flickersonly to reveal the rats,not the hour.There are no seconds here—only heartbeatsthat grow quietbeneath each concrete dawn. They pass me in haste,clutching their scheduleslike scripture,offended by my presence—a blemish on their linear lives.I watch themslave to their devices,willing prisonersto the stopwatch’s tyranny. And still,I do not envy them.I am time unmeasured.I breathe outside the tick.I wake when the cold gnawsand sleep only when memory fades.In this silence,I am free—not honored,not safe,but … Continue reading No Time for Me

They asked what I could never live without, and I answered with silence—not because I had none,but because your name would’ve caught fire on my tongue. You are the thought I carry in a closed fist, the reason my hands tremble in prayers I pretend aren’t meant for anyone.I speak in riddles so no one seesthat every metaphor is a door leading back to you. ❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading 2011

The rooms of the house know what the heart cannot always name. They hold the weight of feeling, arranging themselves in quiet agreement with what aches, what lingers, what shelters. Sadness expands, pressing against the walls, placing the ones we love on the far side of the house, out of reach. We speak, but the distance swallows our words. Fear is small. It hides under the table, curled up in the dim light, waiting for the storm to pass. It listens to footsteps above, the hush of voices, the creak of uncertainty. Loneliness takes the corners, the empty spaces where … Continue reading Emotions & Spaces

Je suis lié, feuille après feuille. Des mains humaines m’ont façonné dans le silence de la nuit, bien avant que l’électricité et les automobiles ne soient imaginées. Sang, sueur et patience ont marqué ma naissance. Je suis le dernier noir de charbon, et pourtant la flamme même de la bougie qui éclairait mon créateur pourrait me engloutir. Je suis une création, une chose infime. Des doigts ont effleuré mes lignes, me transmettant de père en enfant, d’amant en amant, d’inconnu à inconnu. Maintenant, je suis là—cette présence immédiate, nichée parmi des piles de bois grouillant de lépismes. Je suis là, … Continue reading Mon âme de papier