I have phases, you see, irregular, moon-swept intervals where the ink refuses the page and the charcoal shudders against the paper. On these days, I am nothing but a collection of silences. I allow my own smallness, that cramped and shivering thing, to invite the stupid fears in. They do not just visit; they tame me. They sit in the center of my chest like heavy, uninvited guests, and I forget how to breathe in the language of creation.

Sometimes, I simply do not believe in myself. It is a dizzying lack of gravity.

But it is precisely in this hollow space, this desert of the soul, that the urgency arrives. I must go under. I must dive into the thick, dark waters of my own being to rediscover the essence that the noise tried to drown. I search for that raw, pulse-like center that existed before the fears learned my name.

To dive is to remember. To remember is to know, with a sudden and terrifying clarity, that there is a purpose for everything. Even the emptiness. Even the silence. Especially the heart.

©️ Beatriz Esmer