Capítulo 1

It is not enough to build. One must take the debris—the dry, silent dust of what we used to be—and wait for it to breathe. I touch the cracks and feel the mystery of a world forming, not because I want it to, but because the page has its own terrifying hunger. To write is to find the hope that hides in the dirt.

Capítulo 2

I do not write with ink; I write with the blood of my own bewilderment. I tear a piece of my heart—not because I am brave, but because I am full. I give the words my anger, which is a wild animal, and my love, which is a heavy fatigue. To name a feeling is to lose it, yet I bleed so that the word may live.

Capítulo 15

There is a holy violence in the storm. I let the wreckage teach me. One must learn the art of being broken, for only in the rubble—in the silence that follows the scream—is there a peace so pure it hurts. I am the storm, and I am the ruins.

Capítulo 45

The pen is a sword that cuts inward. I write while the pain is still wet, watching it seep into the parchment like a dark, inevitable stain. I look at the monster and see my own eyes reflecting back. To give the beast a soul is my greatest sin and my only salvation. Its actions do not just haunt me; they are me.

O Capítulo Final

Death is not an end, but a deep, dark intimacy. I meet him as one meets a lover in a room without lights—letting the hurt become a form of knowing. I look at the hero and the villain and see only two tired children. I give them the same punishment: the gift of being finished. I offer redemption like a piece of bread.

When the pen falls, it is not a conclusion; it is a surrender. I realized—with a shock that felt like a sudden heartbeat—that the hero and the villain have always shared the same face. It is my face. It is your face.

And the story is better for this betrayal. It is finally, painfully, real.

Part of my play “All My Feelings Torn Apart” — Unfinished

©️ Beatriz Esmer