Where is the love? It is a question that does not sit; it vibrates, a silent insect against a glass pane.

I look at the world and see this ignorance, thick, sticky, appallingly high, a fog that one wants to scream into until the throat is raw. It is infuriating, yes. It is a knot in the chest that refuses to be undone. But then, the scorn arrives. We dress our anger in sharp, polished words, believing they are blades that will cut through the dark. How foolish we are. Scorn is not a scalpel; it is oxygen. It breathes into the embers, fanning the flames of hatred until the fire consumes the very air we were trying to save.

Has a bitter word ever truly birthed a soul? Of course not.

There is a terrifying, holy silence in letting go. Sometimes, one must simply stop. You must let the other person hold their error like a precious, broken stone. Let them be wrong. Even the void of wrongness has its secret architecture, a necessary shadow in the grand, incomprehensible scheme of things. To argue is to tether yourself to their blindness, and I prefer the weightlessness of the heart.

I choose to remain in that translucent place, the place of love. It is not a soft thing; it is a profound endurance. I step back and watch the Great Wheel. It turns without my help, heavy and inevitable, grinding the grain of every action into the flour of consequence. I am not the judge; I am barely the witness.

I breathe in the mystery. I exhale the need to be right.

Saravá meu pai!

©️ Beatriz Esmer