True things exist in the spaces between breaths. You have to sit back, paralyzed by the sheer weight of existence, and think about things; and then, with a violence that borders on grace, you have to close your eyes and jump. To live is to be a liquid, never a solid—it is about being flexible, because life is a jagged glass shard, and reactions, those clumsy, desperate attempts at order, should never be “one size fits all.”

You have to accept—and this is the hardest, most beautiful surrender—that people are going to do what they will do, swirling in their own private cyclones, regardless of the validity of your argument. Your logic is a lace doily against their storm.

Time, that slow, gluttonous devourer of moments, begets reflection; reflection begets understanding; and understanding, finally, begets the cold, necessary closure. There are moments when you just want to shake the holy hell out of someone, to force the truth into their rigid, brittle bones, but the realization arrives: you cannot force a flower to bloom by screaming at it.

To enjoy a slice of happiness, you must commit the act of heresy: you have to do the opposite of what you normally do. You must betray your own habits, those comfortable prisons you have built for yourself. And in that rebellion, you will see yourself—really see yourself—clearly. You will cringe, a visceral, burning recoil at the exposure of your own shadow. Take it as a sign, a divine invitation to change and move on.

Listen closely. Angels speak through strangers, their voices masked by the mundane, their truths hidden in the passing glance of someone you will never meet again. Life brings about challenges that feel like crushing setbacks, but they are imposters—in reality, they are just second chances, disguised in the tattered clothes of failure.

People will judge you; they will hold you up to the light and find you lacking, but who says their judgment matters? It is a vapor, a puff of smoke in a hurricane.

You have to get up, get ready, and run like hell towards your dreams. Do not walk; do not ponder the safety of the path. Run, until your lungs burn with the sharp, sweet oxygen of being alive. 😉 ❤

© Beatriz Esmer