There is no name for what I’m feeling. No word has ever dared to hold it. No metaphor has ever survived its depth. To call it yearning would be like calling the ocean water—technically true, but spiritually insufficient. This feeling is not a thirst; it is the sea itself. It is not longing; it is the tectonic shift beneath the longing.

Whatever this thing is, it doesn’t knock politely. It shoves you inside itself, like a wave swallowing a ship, and suddenly you are somewhere else. You try to measure its boundaries, but they stretch too far, and you don’t have enough time. You move toward them, and they move away. You chase, and it vanishes. You pause, and it floods you.

There has been an earthquake in me. Not the kind that cracks the surface, but the kind that rearranges the soul’s architecture. The kind that makes you question whether the person you were before still exists in the rubble. The kind that doesn’t ask for permission. 😔

©️ Beatriz Esmer