She left to look for her peace and never returned—not because she found it, but because she hadn’t yet seen it, nor felt it, nor smiled. She only cried. And after so much killing, so much crying, and so much suffering, she decided to die. To die without peace. To die in anguish, without knowing how to die. Without knowing how to save; without knowing how to be born. She blamed the seed that failed to sprout; the sun that refused to rise; the heart that skipped its beat; the bad luck she had chosen; the bitter taste of her own words. She did not know how to live; thus, she did not know how to die either. Without knowing how to love, without knowing how to be born. She only knew how to ache; she did not know how to give.

She left to look for her Love and never returned—not because she didn’t find it, but because she ran, she departed, she felt, she bit, she frightened it away. She only cried. And after so much adding up, so much taking hits, so much striking, and so much suffering, she decided to shrink. Her shine, her gifts, her forgiveness. All her choices, in vain. She chose without peace. She chose in anxiety. She chose affliction, fears, ugliness, frustration. She did not know how to love; therefore, she did not know how to live. She managed to give thanks, just a little. For the bridges, for the ties, the affection, the surrender, the tenderness, the embraces.

And because she does not know how to be reborn, she writes her own epitaph. Because she leaves, because she flees; because she dies and the world keeps spinning, keeps flowering, keeps finding what she has not yet found. That is why she writes her epitaph every single day; every day a new death, planning still to be reborn, to love, to live. She began to write to escape, and to find herself. To suffer, and to heal. To Love, and also to die. And after suffering too much, one day perhaps, she might rest in peace. To know how to live, to know how to love; and to flower, by sowing herself. To reinvent the dawn. And in Love, to resurrect…

© Beatriz Esmer