…but after all, you see, I am not an abandoned house. I am not, in the end, haunted and vacant.
My stairs creak, and my windows stick, and the walls groan on windy nights, but I am not haunted. In my humanity, there is beauty.
I have lived, vividly. I have loved, generously. I have cured love with love, and I have been reckless, passionate, brilliant, and ebullient.
I am covered in fingerprints: some hands left bruises, and others I wish would hold me forever. I have been touched, and I have been transformed.
I have scars, not mortal wounds. I have scars, and I am alive.
I have lived, madly. I have loved, imperfectly. But I determined to live, and I gave myself to love.
Those who admire me—the woman, the symbol—admire this wild amalgam. Unbeknownst to them, perhaps, they admire this complex, profound collection of scars and beauty, strength and weakness, light and dark. These are not binaries: I am a breathing spectrum.
It’s beautiful, isn’t it? This prism of both shade and radiance?
In my beauty, there is humanity.
Those who love me—the woman, the individual—love this wild composition of warring, coalescing, symphonic thoughts, feelings, memories, experiences. They know intimately the dissonance, the disparity; they know intimately the harmony, the unity. There is no light without dark.
You see, to love me is to know:
I am not an abandoned house, haunted and vacant. No, in the end, I am this: I am a house built of living light. 🫣❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer