In the chambers of my being, a kaleidoscope of selves resides—each one a distinct voice etched into the architecture of my heart. They are not illusions but the dreamers and architects of my existence, whispering secrets in moonlight and shaping the contours of who I am.

Among them is the wanderer, drawn to distant horizons and the scent of forgotten places. Her eyes trace constellations, yearning for skies untouched by routine. Alongside her stands the skeptic, ink-stained and analytical, dissecting love into formulas yet secretly searching for patterns that defy logic. And then, the lover—an eternal romantic who crafts sonnets from stardust, believing love to be the alchemy that transforms the mundane into the sublime.

These selves clamor within me, bound by the constraints of flesh and time. I yield to their chorus, letting my fingers become conduits for their release. In prose, they find freedom—the skeptic softens, the wanderer finds anchorage, and the lover’s verses become lullabies that soothe my restless soul.

There is no singular “right” person, no fixed mold. We are a symphony of contradictions and harmonies, painted in hues of vulnerability. Love, like sunlight through leaves, spills through our cracks and binds us in a language spoken by every heart. Within us live entire worlds, and perhaps love is the ink that writes them all.

©️ Beatriz Esmer