November, 2016 A daily fixture.A rhythm etched into pavement and heartbeats. I drove today through streets that once felt like mine—every corner a memory, every crack in the sidewalk a whisper of who I used to be. These were the streets I rode with laughter in my lungs. The streets I cried on when the world felt too heavy. The streets that led me to friends’ houses, to dreams, to heartbreaks, to hotdogs and Thursday night TV. That freedom—those carefree days—was paid in blood. Not just the blood of history, but the quiet sacrifices of growing up. Of letting go. … Continue reading New York Memories

When a man tells you he’s “not sure” about the relationship, it’s already over. He’s either working on someone new or too much of a coward to truly end things. A man who loves a woman will move mountains for her. Trust me, if he’s not fighting for you, he’s not the one. Pay attention to the stories he tells you. If he mentions a nice restaurant or a show, he didn’t go with a buddy or alone. And yes, most men look at porn. Frequently. Your tears should be his Kryptonite; if he doesn’t care when you cry, he’s … Continue reading Hard truths from the mouths of men…

Hoje, o Brasil se despede de Lô Borges, mas sua música permanece viva dentro de nós — como um girassol da cor do nosso cabelo, como um trem azul que nunca para de passar. Ele não era apenas um compositor. Era um arquiteto de sentimentos, um escultor de harmonias que moldou o coração da música brasileira. Desde aquele encontro mágico com Milton Nascimento nas escadas do Edifício Levy, nasceu uma amizade que transformaria a MPB para sempre. Juntos, criaram o Clube da Esquina, um movimento que misturou rock, jazz, bossa nova e os sons das montanhas mineiras em uma linguagem … Continue reading Adeus Lô …

Every night, as we lay our heads down to rest, we step into the unknown without any assurance of what the next morning holds. Yet, with unwavering faith, we set our alarms to wake up to a new day. This is hope—an enduring whisper within us, urging us to keep moving forward. Hope is that quiet voice inside, gently reminding us that there is always a reason to rise, to face whatever comes, and to believe in the promise of tomorrow. It is the courage to continue, to find light even in the darkest of nights. 🙏🏾❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Hope

When I die, I will return—not to rest, but to search. I will drift through the afterlife like a tide undone, seeking the instants I never lived near the sea. My soul will wander barefoot along forgotten shores, tracing the outline of memories that never came to be. Each wave will whisper to me, soft and persistent, telling stories of days I never touched, of sunrises I never watched dissolve into the ocean’s embrace. The salty breeze will carry echoes—fragments of laughter, the hush of twilight, the rhythm of a heart that longed for water. I will gather these moments … Continue reading When I die …

Relax—time is a master of plot twists. In its arms, time carries the most unimaginable surprises, transforming life with its mastery. What seems insurmountable today may dissolve into a gentle breeze tomorrow. The challenges we face, the pain we feel, are all fleeting in the face of time’s greatness and wisdom. With every twist and turn, time teaches us the value of patience and hope. It shows us that no matter how difficult the journey may seem, there is always a possibility for renewal, for rebirth. Time is a skilled artist, painting new landscapes, creating new opportunities, and giving us … Continue reading Relax!

Com imensa alegria, compartilho com vocês que meu livro Monólogos está finalizado e em breve estará disponível nas livrarias! Essa obra é o resultado de anos de escrita, reflexão e emoção. Reúne uma coleção de monólogos criados para o palco, mas que também vivem intensamente nas páginas — textos poéticos que mergulham nos sentimentos e nas experiências humanas, nas dores e nas delicadezas que nos atravessam. Escrito em inglês e português, Monólogos é um convite à escuta interior, à voz que ecoa quando estamos a sós, e ao teatro como espaço de revelação. Mal posso esperar para que ele encontre … Continue reading Monólogos

Love never dies.But there are nights when it forgets your name,when it turns its back and closes every door you once believed would stay ajar.You stand outside, breath fogging the silence,and the world feels like a hallway of locked rooms. Sometimes your heart spills—not like poetry, not like wine—but like a hard night on an empty pavement.Cold.Unnoticed.And no one puts their jacket over you.No one walks you home. You wander, barefoot and half-crazed,the moon your only witness,the stars too far to care.You ask the wind if there was ever a door that let you in at all,or if love was … Continue reading The Door That Never Closed

The first line of a poem should usher you in—not with fanfare, but with quiet invitation.A door half open, its hinges whispering welcome.Inside, a warm glow spills across the floor,soft as memory, steady as breath.There’s an empty seat waiting—not lonely, but expectant,as if someone just stood up to fetch teaand will return with stories still steaming. You sit. You listen.The words unfold like linen,creased with longing, smoothed by time.They speak of love, of loss,of the way light bends through old windowsand how silence sometimes says the most. And just when you think you’ve settled in—when the rhythm has rocked you … Continue reading The first line of a poem should usher you in

— Eles não vão gostar!— Eles que se fodam! Foi assim que começou. Duas frases, cuspidas com a força de quem já cansou de pedir licença para existir. Eu estava ali, diante de mais uma decisão que parecia pequena, mas carregava o peso de todas as expectativas alheias. Um corte de cabelo diferente, uma escolha de carreira, uma opinião que não se encaixava no molde. Sempre vinha alguém com o alerta: “Eles não vão gostar.” Mas quem são “eles”? Os que assistem de camarote, prontos para vaiar? Os que nunca ousaram sair da fila, mas distribuem regras como se fossem … Continue reading Crônica: O Dia em Que Eu Disse “Eles Que Se Fodam”