In the quiet corners of my soul, I lived a hunger that no kitchen could satisfy. I didn’t merely read; I feasted. I ate books like cool, crisp salads at noon; they were the thick sandwiches of my lunches, the sweet, warm munguzá of my afternoons, and the secret, midnight cravings of a heart that refused to sleep.

I was a glutton for the written word. I tore out the pages with a lover’s impatience, seasoning the ink with a pinch of salt and dousing the stanzas in relish. I gnawed on the tough leather of the bindings as if they were rinds of sun-dried meat, turning the heavy chapters not with fingers, but with the tip of my tongue, tasting the very salt of human thought.

The Weight of Wonders
I gathered them by the dozen, then by the score, until they numbered in the billions. My spine became a curved bridge under the weight of so many worlds carried home; I walked hunchbacked for years, not from age, but from the beautiful gravity of paper.

Within me, a strange alchemy began, Philosophy settled in my marrow, Art History colored my vision, Politics and Social Science became the rhythm of my pulse, and The Poems and Essays were the breath in my lungs.

Through those grandiose plays, the world transformed. The walls of my room dissolved into gardens, and the ceiling flew away with the birds. Now, when I walk through the fields, I no longer need a dictionary. I have started speaking the delicate, perfumed language of the flowers, and I nod in silent agreement with the ancient, wandering wisdom of the winds.

After all, to read is simply to find a way to fly while remaining rooted in the earth. 🌺🍀❤️🙏

© Beatriz Esmer