My flesh is papyrus.Not paper—no, that would burn too fast. I am papyrus: thick with story, frayed at the edges, yet holding every stroke of ink life dared to write on me. These lines—every crease, every fracture—they are not damage. They are poetry. You see this scar here? It’s not shame. It’s a stanza.It says: I have loved. Enough to be broken open.It says: I have lived. Through storms that did not ask permission.It says: I have been.And now… I am trying to become. You look for beauty in symmetry. In clean slates and flawless skin. But I have learned—There … Continue reading Monologue: “Papyrus”

Eu pensei.Pensei que em 2025 a gente já tivesse aprendido alguma coisa.Não muito — só o básico. O óbvio.Como respeitar. Como cuidar. Como calar quando o que vem da boca é veneno. Mas olha… olha o que fizeram.Deixaram o mal sair do subsolo, se infiltrar nas telas, nas conversas de domingo, nos olhos das crianças.E a gente achando que o futuro seria limpo, transparente, leve.Tudo mentira. Ou talvez… ingenuidade minha. Dizem que o povo está decepcionado, que é por isso que votam no ódio, que reproduzem violência como quem respira —mas desde quando decepção virou desculpa pra crueldade? Eu pensei … Continue reading Monólogo

There are days when I don’t choose to fight forever. Instead, I turn the pillow to its cool side, surrendering to anonymity—the gray, painless void. But then, like a whispered echo, memories stir. Commitments etched into my soul, faces of those I love, their laughter and tears—they weave themselves into my consciousness. And in that delicate balance, I find resolve. “Today,” I tell myself, “they are still here.” The weight of their presence becomes my armor. Each sunrise, each heartbeat, a testament to resilience. I am a warrior, not with swords or shields, but with the quiet strength of persistence. … Continue reading There are days …

When they tell you that this tragedy, this ache that has taken root in your bones, is not worth their time, do not falter. Instead, grasp your pen—the instrument of defiance—and write. Write with the fire of a thousand suns, scorching the parchment with every syllable. Show them the way they are wrong. Paint your pain in vivid hues, each stroke a testament to the universality of suffering. For every woman who has ever felt the weight of solitude, let your words be a lifeline. Let them scream across the pages, echoing through generations. And when they force-feed you doubt, … Continue reading Ink and Rebellion

(This is an excerpt from one of my plays) You ask me why we need prophets Why we bend our ears toward mountaintops, toward burning bushes and thunderous clouds. Why we hush our instincts just to hear another speak with divine authority, etched in gold leaf or sanctified by centuries. Maybe it’s not the prophet we need—maybe it’s the permission. Permission to trust our doubts. To feel anger and still be good. To choose tenderness and still be strong. We carry this strange hunger to be told that the ache inside us isn’t a flaw but a compass. That the … Continue reading Monologue

Ela aprendeu cedo, talvez cedo demais, que a vida não espera aplausos. Que mesmo os instantes mais sublimes se despedem sem aceno. Foi então que decidiu: viveria como se tudo fosse uma despedida. Porque tudo é. A xícara de café pela manhã ganhou o peso de um ritual de adeus. O perfume de quem passa na calçada tornou-se memória antes mesmo de desaparecer. Cada olhar trocado, um relicário. Cada riso partilhado, um testamento deixado ao tempo. As pessoas achavam estranho. “Mas por que tanta solenidade num simples pôr do sol?” — ela sorria. Mal sabiam eles que todo pôr do … Continue reading Último Ato

At the end of the day, we invite sorrow into our lives so that we remain bare before the one who matters most: ourselves. It is in life’s very nature to demand such vulnerability, so we may learn how to clothe ourselves in new garments and fresh dreams. Sadness, then, becomes a precise symptom—a message telling us, among other things, that the clothes we wear no longer fit. Yet we so often refuse this quiet counsel. And how easy it is to gather rags from the streets we pass through each day. Among us—humans—intolerance, fear… which of us is immune? … Continue reading We are naked…

Along life’s paths, we become halves. Halves to fit into smaller spaces. Less suffering, it’s true, but also less life and less love. This half is shaped by the distance we create between ourselves and others, between ourselves and existence itself. Those who fragment, numb themselves to say goodbye to what consumes them. We stop feeling the urgency to exist, and little devours us beyond our own half. We ignore the heights of love, no longer knowing the pain of falling, nor our own freedoms. In our halves, we lose the heights of love. We no longer feel the wind … Continue reading Reflections on Life — Halves

It has aged my friends, my family, and all things with me. Time, too, measures itself differently when we fall in love. Perhaps that’s why we feel it so deeply—whether we are a hundred or just over ten. To those who hurt me and could not love, I chose to stop loving them. I must learn the art of letting go.But the passions that once sparked within me—those I thought were love—I kept. The friendships that blossomed and later revealed the true shape of love nourished me. I chose to carry them with me always. For the love I would … Continue reading Maybe love is a way of growing old

I am searching for a home—not of brick and timber, but of belonging. A place where my being might unfold freely and my soul finally come to rest. I am not like others; I carry a different rhythm, an unusual light. And so I wonder what kind of home might cradle such difference. Perhaps it is only a modest, tidy room, filled with soft silence and golden morning light.Perhaps it is a small, hidden house embraced by trees and solitude.Perhaps it is nowhere fixed, but scattered across rivers, fields, and skies—everywhere that nature whispers welcome.Or maybe, just maybe… it lives … Continue reading Home