It is in the hollowed-out cavern of my silence that I finally begin to exist. I do not use ink; I write with the sharp, jagged letters of my own noise, that internal clatter that no one hears but which vibrates against my ribs like a trapped bird. I have learned to forget my mistakes, not out of strength, but because I am beautifully, utterly poor of pride. To have pride is to have a ceiling, and I prefer the sky. I strip myself of the “important me” until I am thin enough to slip through the cracks of other … Continue reading The Geography of Silence

Je suis dans cette chambre impersonnelle,Je suis seule et pourtant, étrange, éternelle,Femme, déesse infinie, j’ai mille ans,Tant de choses vécues, au fil des ans.Une à une j’ai mis à bas les barrières,Je n’ai plus peur, je suis mère, guerrière,Des difficultés lourdes, je ne sens plus le joug,La violence ne m’effleure plus, je tends la joue.Les couleurs s’éveillent, comme un matin du monde,J’ose vivre et aimer, m’aimer, entrer dans la ronde,Je suis en paix, belle et pleine de sentiments joyeux,En accord avec la vie, j’avance, instants heureux.Enfin une étincelle est née , a jaillit,Enfin le cœur a gagné cette partie,Pour le … Continue reading Éternelle

Crer é, antes de tudo, uma arquitetura de urgência. Erguemos paredes para não desabar diante do infinito. A crença é essa casa, de teto baixo e janelas exatas, onde nos instalamos com o conforto cego de quem se acomoda no próprio tamanho. Mas o ser, esse bicho inquieto e mudo, teima em crescer no escuro. De repente, a sala aperta. Os ombros roçam nos batentes e a alma descobre, num susto de clareza, que já não cabe nos antigos altares. É preciso o êxodo. A maturidade não é o destino, é o corredor escuro entre uma morada e outra; é … Continue reading O Despejo de Si Mesma

It was not a moment, but a suspension. A most beautiful, incredible, immaculate moment, as if the world had forgotten its duty to rotate and simply breathed in. I was there, or perhaps I was the space between the air and the water. A silent prayer in still waters.I look at the river, and the river looks at me with its wet, unblinking eyes. I wonder, with a sudden pang of existential vertigo: how many questions can a river carry to the sea before it becomes too heavy with salt? Does the water tire of its own fluidity? Every thought … Continue reading A Vertigo of Still Waters

To love is to love when one embraces, that sudden collision of two solitudes, and it is to love in the hollow silence of listening. It is the exhaustion of understanding and the quiet, crystalline mercy of forgiveness. One loves in the unbearable weight of waiting, in the cooling touch that relieves, and even in the sharp, holy needle of affliction. It is a hunger. To love is to lack, to need with a thirst that feels like the very beginning of the world. It is the vertigo of being loved, and the vast, cold desert of when one is … Continue reading The Verbe Alive: A Meditation on Being

I write little. Simple. Tiny words. But I write them as often as you pour water into a flowerpot. Eventually, my clumsy fingers will employ enough finesse to arrange a bouquet of words for you like lemonade and sugarplum or daffodil and ginger, but for now, all I can afford is this. A little water. A little thought. Tiny words to promise you that one day I’ll grow into something beautiful. One day… ❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Words…

Clouds for stories…Trees swaying in the breeze.Home made dinner.A good bottle of red.Unspoken words.Silence, except for soft music.A little room to figure things out.Love is happening.Healing is happening.Beauty is happening.Because you don’t need to have it all be perfect, and healed,to share your light.We all have parts unfinished.That’s what keeps us moving,open,and real.❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Simple things …

Sometimes, when the sun tiptoes across the horizon, painting the world in hues of possibility, there exists a paradox—a quiet battle waged within the chambers of the heart. The strongest souls, those who wear resilience like armor, rise with the dawn. Their footsteps echo with determination, their smiles a veil concealing the weight they bear. They carry burdens unseen, shoulders squared against the tempests of life. To the world, they are pillars of strength, unwavering and unyielding. But nightfall, ah, that tender shroud of darkness—it whispers secrets. When the stars emerge, these same indomitable souls cradle their fragility. Alone in … Continue reading Sometimes …

The beauty of poetry is a trap of transparency. It is the terrifying luxury of saying so little that every word becomes a wide-open door, or perhaps a mirror that refuses to lie. In its succinctness, it strips us. To write a poem is to stand in a crowded room and realize, with a startle of cold air, that one is entirely naked. It exposes the writer to a great vulnerability, not the kind that seeks pity, but the kind that exists in the breathless space between a heartbeat and a sigh. We reach for powerful language, those heavy, shimmering … Continue reading Poetry

O dia se desfaz lá fora em nuvens para histórias, massas brancas que não pedem licença para mudar de forma. Elas apenas são. Olho as árvores balançando na brisa e percebo que o movimento é uma aceitação. Elas não lutam contra o vento; elas o traduzem em coreografia. Dentro, o cheiro de um jantar caseiro, esse rito de terra e fogo, ancora o que em mim ainda flutua. Abrimos uma boa garrafa de tinto. O vinho é o sangue do tempo, descendo quente, desatando os nós da garganta, mas mantendo intactas as palavras não ditas. Porque há coisas que, se … Continue reading O Inacabado é que nos Salva