Let them sleep, those who have not yet heard the whisper of the infinite in the rustling of leaves, who have not felt the pulse of the universe in the silence between heartbeats. Let them rest in the comfort of certainty, in the warmth of well-worn beliefs, while the rest of us dissolve into the mystery.

There is a Love that does not ask for permission. It floods the soul like spring thaw, like moonlight spilling through a broken window. It does not wait for understanding, nor does it seek approval from the intellect. It simply arrives—unannounced, unashamed—and begins its work.

Those who sip dawn like medicine, who feast on sunset as if it were the last supper of the soul—they know. They have tasted the wildness of surrender, the sweetness of being undone. They do not study Love as a subject; they become its students by vanishing into it.

Let the scholars argue. Let the theologians build their scaffolds of logic and lace them with scripture. We have torn the veil. We have stepped naked into the fire. We have no need for robes of reason or garments of doctrine. We wear only the wind and the ache of longing.

If you are still clothed in certainty, if your words still shield you from the rawness of being, then sleep. Wrap yourself in your eloquence and rest. The river will wait. The stars will keep watch. And when you are ready—truly ready—you will wake, not to knowledge, but to wonder.

©️ Beatriz Esmer