It all matters. But not with the weight of gold; it matters with the weight of a breath that realizes it is breathing.

It matters that a hand reaches out and extinguishes the lamp, plunging the room into the original darkness. It matters that someone listens to the repeated tale, not for the story, but for the vibration of the throat that needs to be heard. To wash the dishes is to touch the cold porcelain of existence; to play the game fairly is to acknowledge the silence of the abyss.

There is a holiness in the wiped counter. A clean surface is a prayer. To say “goodnight” is to admit that we might not survive the sleep, yet we go anyway.

The Smallness of God
It matters that someone waits at the yellow light, suspended in the in-between. To tip the waiter, to congratulate the victor, these are the small, dry ceremonies that keep the world from dissolving into a scream. We choose the smaller portion because we are finally full of the emptiness.

To tend to the dying is to look into the mirror of our own future.
To guide the lost is to admit that we, too, have no map.
To reach for the lonely is to touch the skin of God.

The Unthinking Being
Do not search for meaning. Meaning is a trap for the intellect; it is the shell of the nut. Eat the nut, even if it tastes of earth. Do not overthink. To think is to fail at being.

I am here to tell you, with the neutrality of a stone and the urgency of a heartbeat,
It all matters.
Even the dust.
Especially the dust.

“Everything in the world began with a ‘yes.’ One molecule said ‘yes’ to another molecule and life was born. But before prehistory there was the prehistory of the prehistory and there was the never and there was the yes. It was ever so.”
— A nod to Clarice. A Hora da Estrela

©️ Beatriz Esmer