Come. Or don’t come, but know that the air is thickening.

Let us inhabit a verse by Lorca, not for the music, but for the blood of the rhythm, that dark sound of a guitar that scratches at the insides of the soul. We aren’t walking down a boulevard of old dreams; we are walking through the raw, gleaming matter of time itself. Memories are not ornaments here. They are mirrors that look back at us until we blink.

Why do we keep these stagnant emotions like dead water in a vase? Break the glass. Let us laugh with a sincerity so sharp it cuts. I want the kind of bravery that doesn’t need an audience, only an accomplice to witness the sheer scandal of being alive. We will toast, not to “triumphs,” which are social inventions, but to the Ecstasy. To the wild, silent creed of existing. Have you ever looked at a star and felt the same dizzying vertigo as looking into your own palm? It is the same thing.

I am not asking you to hope. I am inviting you to be. To say “yes” before the thought even forms, because the “yes” is a heartbeat. Right now, we are not just weaving words; we are the words themselves, pulsating in a lyrical spasm.

Don’t just listen to the melody. Evaporate. Lose the edges of your body. In this instant, this wild, unmapped dance, we are finally, and most dangerously, free.

©️ Beatriz Esmer