Time has passed, and I have pondered us at different hours and through various flavors. Despite the inclinations to hold grudges or to forget them, the conclusion is that our imbalance is a ruin where our truths hide and love conceals itself. Picture it: a solitary life with our dog and a small garden in the backyard, tended with our own hands.

Psychopaths had dogs, dictators were vegans, and devout Christians. This, therefore, doesn’t say much about you, me, or them. But your solitude with rue plants in the yard—yes, this is the limbo where our emptiness revels. Our bitterness reveals our emotional state, framed in no color, a portrait in black and white. Sadness has thorns. Your temper screams the moment you deny it. The advice? Invite your shadow for a glass of wine, a shot of cachaça, some light conversation, and a few snacks—preferably pork rinds. To digest the indigestible, frivolous laughter. To live what remains unlived. To be worthy of what insists on not being. So that you don’t return to crises, allergies, and deficiencies: of vitamins, loves, and friends. I hope your dog wags its tail when you return home at the end of the day and licks your face with gratitude! 🙏🏾❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer