What a strange language this is that I use to forget myself. There are days when not even all the caffeine in the world is enough for me. I write to whoever may read, as if the words could find an unknown recipient, someone who understands what even I cannot decipher. This is the act of letting it out, but where is the inside?

The inside is a noisy silence, a pre-art, a space full of pre-things waiting to be named. It is an organized chaos, a universe in potential, waiting to be discovered. The inside is what I invented, a continuous creation, a never-ending narrative. It is where my thoughts hide, where my emotions intertwine in a silent dance.

Each written word is an attempt to give shape to this inside, to transform the intangible into something tangible. But will I ever succeed? Or will the inside always remain a mystery, an enigma that only I can feel but never fully understand?

I write to find myself, to explore this vast internal territory. And perhaps, by sharing these words, I can find others who also navigate their own internal seas, seeking, like me, a sense, a connection, an understanding. 🙏🏾❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer