Belief is a house built to our own size—walls shaped by wonder, windows framed by hope. For a time, we live there, comfortably, as if it were all we’d ever need. But time stretches us. We grow, or perhaps we outgrow. The ceilings feel lower, the corners tighter, and suddenly, we find ourselves packing up, seeking a new shelter for the truths we now carry. Maturity is the quiet act of moving—sometimes with grace, sometimes with grief—from one house of belief to another. We wander through unfamiliar rooms, or return to old ones, rearranged for convenience, nostalgia, or comfort. Each … Continue reading The Architecture of Belief

(A single spotlight. The character stands center stage, still. A long pause before they speak—measured, deliberate. Their voice is quiet at first, but unwavering.) You may judge me.Go on.But not by the fluency of my tongue,nor by the grandeur of my declarations. Look deeper.Past the syllables.Past the syntax.Into the quiet spaces—those trembling silences where my truth hides,barefoot and unadorned. There.There you’ll find it.The unspoken honesty.Not wrapped in ribbons.Not polished for applause.Just… offered.Freely.Without barter.Without compromise. Honesty—it isn’t a currency.It isn’t something to be traded,or haggled over like fruit in a market.It’s a gem.A rare one.Glowing in the dark,when all the clever … Continue reading Monologue: The Unspoken Honesty

I’ve learned that some people don’t leave with thunder or warning—they just slip away, quietly, like dusk folding into night. No goodbye. No explanation. Just absence. We give them our time, our laughter, our silences. They become part of our rhythm, like breath—so constant we forget it’s even there. Their presence seeps into the corners of our lives, soft and essential, like poetry whispered into the bones of our days. And then, they’re gone. What’s left is not just emptiness—it’s a hollow echo, a space that aches. A silence that screams. There’s no remedy for that kind of loss. No … Continue reading Departure

Deep in my soul, I stand as a sentinel for the fragile beauty of our shared existence. I champion the right to be painfully human—to wear our vulnerabilities like badges of honor. In our rawness, our unfiltered emotions, we uncover our truest selves. I defend the ache of love, the tremor of grief, the quiet joy of connection. To feel deeply is to be gloriously alive, and so I resist the numbing winds of indifference, daring to bare my heart even when it quivers. I dance on the precipice of imagination, delightfully dreamy, my feet barely touching the ground. I … Continue reading Deliciously Human

When people treat you like they don’t care, believe them.Not because you’re unworthy of love, but because love—real love—doesn’t hide behind silence or half-hearted gestures. It doesn’t flinch when you speak your truth, nor does it vanish when you need it most. Love shows up. It listens. It stays. There’s a quiet kind of freedom in letting go of those who only hold you when it’s convenient. You stop shrinking yourself to fit into their fleeting attention. You stop begging for crumbs when you were made for feasts. And then, one day, you find him. The one you can be … Continue reading The Ones Who Stay

(Softly, almost to oneself) There is a day… a day unlike any other.When the sun scorches without remorse, and the sky forgets how to weep.When hunger isn’t just in the belly—it’s in the bones, in the breath.And thirst? Thirst becomes a kind of prayer.That’s the day of stones and oil. (Pauses, picks up a stone, studies it) I remember walking—no, stumbling—through a field that had long since given up.My lips were cracked like old clay pots, my eyes… they’d stopped searching for green.And then I saw it.A stone.Not gold, not bread—just a stone.I picked it up, placed it in my … Continue reading Monologue: The Day of Stones and Oil

By Beatriz Esmer (adapted from her poem) (A dim light. The speaker stands still, barefoot, as if just waking. They speak slowly, as if remembering something they wish they could forget.) A shame I woke up human again this morning.Dry-mouthed.Sullen.Reading—reading what we’ve done.What we keep doing.To each other.To our own. By nature, they say.By nature. (Pause. A bitter laugh.) I wish I were a glasswing butterfly.Invisible.Fragile.Hidden in the world. But no.I’ve got mosquito bites.Ankles. Arms.One prickling my hand like a secret I can’t scratch away. Too bad I’m stuck in this body.Too bad I’m numb.Too bad—Good thing I’m alive, I … Continue reading Monologue: “Glasswing”

I keep pretending to know, as if certainty were a shield I could carry through the world. But beneath the surface, I do not really know anything. Not in the way I once believed knowing should feel—solid, sharp-edged, unshakable. There is, however, a knowing within. A quiet pulse beneath the noise. It flickers like a candle in the wind—present, but elusive. Each time I try to name it, to wrap it in the language of conditions and expectations, it slips away. The more I assign meaning, the more I demand clarity, the further it drifts. So perhaps, just for a … Continue reading 🌿 The Grace of Not Knowing

Et ainsi, je me suis abandonnée au déluge — les souvenirs déferlant comme des gouttes de pluie sur une terre assoiffée. Chaque réminiscence portait une saveur distincte : les rires des amis d’enfance, le parfum du jasmin en fleurs, le toucher d’une main aimée. Ils s’accumulaient dans les creux de mon cœur, comblant les fissures laissées par le temps et la distance. La tempête en moi faisait rage, mais ce n’était pas un ouragan de désespoir ; c’était plutôt une purification, un baptême de mémoire. J’ai fermé les yeux, laissant les souvenirs m’envahir, consciente qu’ils étaient à la fois mon … Continue reading Déluge

I stand like a lonely house, weathered by time and memory. My timeworn walls echo with the whispers of your absence, each creak a yearning for your return. The windows, once vibrant portals to the world, now ache with anticipation, yearning for the moment when you will see me again and breathe life into these forgotten chambers. Until then, I remain, a sentinel of longing, waiting for the day when your footsteps grace my threshold once more. The seasons pass, and still, I wait. The sun traces its golden arc across the sky, casting shadows upon my worn floors. The … Continue reading Yearning House