It’s raining here, and the wind doesn’t want to stop knocking on my window. I love the rain, but I still can’t understand why I write every time it appears. Maybe because, if you know how to listen to the rain and the silences, they have their own fragile, hidden words. Or maybe because it falls on your indecipherable thoughts, while I’m here convincing myself that, no matter how much something can tear us to shreds, or leave us like pieces in a trunk or skeletons in a closet, we will never be completely destroyed. I write because there are deep, tender thoughts that cannot stand the sunlight, truths that must come out on these gray days because they need the rain to stir the quiet emotions of the heart.

The rain weaves itself into the very fabric of our interior landscapes, stitching together fragments of memories and longings we barely knew existed. Each drop is a tiny messenger, carrying the weight of the past and the quiet echo of an uncertain future, while the wind urges us to open the window and let the storm cleanse our soul.

Writing in these moments becomes an act of survival, a delicate way to navigate the labyrinth of the mind and give voice to the most silent, untouched corners of our inner world.

In the end, the rain is not just a backdrop to our solitude; it becomes a co-author, guiding our words with a rhythm that mirrors the steady, unyielding heartbeat of the human spirit. The storm may howl against the glass, and things may break into pieces, but as long as we have ink and the courage to listen to the rain, we are never truly lost.

© Beatriz Esmer