They say the world spins. I say it grinds. It is not the vertigo of a name whispered in the dark that keeps the stars from falling; it is something much heavier. More silent. You want someone? I know that hunger. It is a hollow ache in the stomach, a fire that does not warm but eats. To want until the soul is a peeled fruit, wet and stinging in the open air—that is not a miracle. It is a state of emergency.

The Live Wire

That longing—it is water electrified. A frenzied, microscopic riot. You reach out. You grab the wire because the shock feels like being alive, and you mistake the convulsion for a heartbeat. You think: if it hurts this much, it must be destiny. But a spasm is not a dance.

Why do we stay in the room where the air has run out? Because we are afraid of the silence outside. We fear that without the electricity, we are merely furniture. It is a lie. A mirage that tastes like salt. The truth is much more difficult: you were not made to be a conductor for pain. You were sculpted for a touch that has a weight.

The Weight of Peace

You were made for hands that possess the courage of stillness. Not a body that vibrates with the “perhaps” of a Sunday afternoon, but a body that recognizes you with the terrifying gravity of a mirror.

The Honest Mouth: A mouth that speaks your name and, in doing so, creates the very ground you stand on.

The Incantation: To hear your name is to feel the slow, deliberate “falling” into yourself. Not off a cliff, but into a bed of deep moss.

The Flame and the Orbit

Do not accept the scraps. To eat the crumbs of a soul that does not speak your language is to starve slowly while your mouth is full. Wait. Not for the spark—sparks are cheap, they die in the wind—but for the flame that is also a house.

Wait for the love that arrives like the dawn: a gradual, inevitable invasion of light. It does not shout. It simply reveals what was already there. You will realize then that love is not the jolt that breaks the bone. Love is the gravity. It is the heavy, sacred tether that keeps you from floating away into the cold, screaming vacuum of the “almost.”

 “I am tired of the lightning. I want the permanence of the earth beneath my fingernails.“

©️ Beatriz Esmer