I don’t know how many souls I have. Each moment brings a new transformation, leaving me feeling like a perpetual stranger to myself. I’ve never truly seen or found the essence of who I am. In my multiplicity, I am left with only my soul, a restless entity. A man with a soul finds no peace, for he is constantly in flux. A man who sees is confined to his vision, and a man who feels is not defined by his emotions.

As I remain attentive to my being and my perceptions, I merge with them, losing my sense of self. My dreams and desires seem to belong to others, not to me. I am a landscape unto myself, observing my journey through life—ever-changing, ever-moving, and alone. Here, in this place, I cannot truly feel my own presence.

This is why I read my existence as if it were a book written by someone else. I turn the pages with curiosity, unaware of what lies ahead and forgetting what has already passed. In the margins, I jot down my thoughts and feelings, only to later question if they were truly mine. Perhaps only Oxala knows, for He is the author of my story. 🙏🏾❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer