It is a peculiar vertigo, this habit of mine. Human beings like me love talking to the stars. We lean our foreheads against the cold glass of the night, asking questions of the silence because the silence is the only thing large enough to hold our hunger. I talk to them not to be heard, but to exist in a dimension where “I” am no longer a social contract, but a pulse.

How rare it is to find a soul on earth—a real soul, not a mask—shining bright like a star. Most people are opaque; they are made of thick, grey walls and tired “hellos.” But then, the miracle occurs. One stumbles upon a presence that vibrates. But there are a few, even brighter than the full moon, who possess a light so violent and pure it hurts the eyes. It is an unbearable beauty. They do not merely exist; they happen.

I feel a tremor in my hands. Perhaps these words are now being read by someone like that… Someone who understands that to shine is also to burn. If you are there, reading this, do not turn away. We are both made of the same exhausted gold.

©️Beatriz Esmer