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

They met me as one might meet a storm—cautiously, eyes scanning the sky for signs, bracing for the unknown. I do not unfold gently. I arrive in bursts and crescendos, my words not always palatable, my affections rarely tame. My love is not the kind found in tidy verses or love songs that rhyme. It is jagged and honest, stitched with longing and fire. It demands presence. It asks you not to sip but to drown a little, to forget the taste of tepid things. I have learned that I am an acquired taste—the kind that startles at first, then … Continue reading Storm

And in silence, until the words quiet within me,they are not typhoons—but breezes. Not lightning, nor thunder, nor fierce wind—just silent clouds adriftin a cotton-candy sky. They carry my reveries from north to south,hide my sunshine,clench my horizon, awaken my storms…Yet so shy, they only pour torrents—within me. ❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Words

(a monologue) Time—what a luxury for thosewho walk upright beneath golden façades,cradled by warmth,traced by plans,blessed with calendars thatmean tomorrow. But me?I live where clocks forget to tick.Where lamplight flickersonly to reveal the rats,not the hour.There are no seconds here—only heartbeatsthat grow quietbeneath each concrete dawn. They pass me in haste,clutching their scheduleslike scripture,offended by my presence—a blemish on their linear lives.I watch themslave to their devices,willing prisonersto the stopwatch’s tyranny. And still,I do not envy them.I am time unmeasured.I breathe outside the tick.I wake when the cold gnawsand sleep only when memory fades.In this silence,I am free—not honored,not safe,but … Continue reading No Time for Me