I move through this world like a feather trembling in the wind—delicate, easily undone, yet carrying its own quiet grace. I am no more than ink pressed into paper, a fleeting trace of existence, resisting the weight of its own shadow. And still, I know: strength is not born of force, but of gentleness. It lives in the lightest touch, in the subtle art of shifting, in the beauty of yielding and responding.

The world’s textures have carved their roughness into me, gravel lodged deep within my being. Yet I am learning to welcome the creak of my mind’s hinges, to turn their clamor into music. It is in the muted grey of days that I discover solace—a tender invitation to retreat, to listen, to breathe.

Before my experiences burst into wild, uncontrollable flight, I must first gather them close. Not to shrink myself, but to expand my corners, to bend their edges outward, to place them boldly at the center of the room. To claim space, even in fragility.

I gaze into the grey without asking for color, without demanding light. In this stillness, I find my softness again—my unashamed devotion, my love, my whole self. It is here, in the quiet, that I uncover the strength to meet the world’s chaos, not with armor, but with openness.

©️ Beatriz Esmer