Tag: writing

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Rumi

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In the grand theater of existence, the length of our performance remains a mystery. Yet, as the great poet Rumi has beautifully articulated, it is not the duration of our lives that inspires, but the intensity with which we live them. Each breath we draw, each moment we experience, is a testament to our resilience, our determination to simply exist. We are warriors in the arena of life, armed with courage and fortified by the will to survive. We fight, not against an external adversary, but against the very fragility of our existence. Our battles may be silent, our victories … Continue reading Rumi

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Attraction

beatrizesmer

In the quiet reflection of the glass, we often seek truths untold, for in the mirror’s gaze lies a story, not of years, but of the soul. It whispers not of waistlines, nor the numbers that tip the scales, but of the grace with which we stand, amidst life’s winding trails. Attraction, they say, is skin deep, but true allure is the art of poise, it’s the unspoken kindness in a glance, the warmth in a voice. It’s the smile that greets the stranger, the laughter that fills the room, the passion that ignites like fire, dispelling shadows of gloom. … Continue reading Attraction

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The Wind

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I am the cartographer of my own destiny, tracing paths not on ancient parchment, but across the vast canvas of the cosmos. I chase the frayed ends of sunshine, those elusive strands of light that lead me through the labyrinth of life. In my pocket, I carry not coins, but stars—luminous memories of those I’ve cherished and lost along the way. Each glimmering star a story, a whisper of love, a beacon of hope in the dark. Change is my constant companion, the currency with which I barter for new dawns and dusks. I am no mere traveler; I am … Continue reading The Wind

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My Nocturnal Reveries

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As dusk gives way to the night’s embrace, my thoughts unfurl into a grand amphitheater of introspection. The stage is set, the spotlight dims, and the performance of my psyche begins. Here, in this hallowed hall of reverie, the drapes of my mind’s eye remain ever wide, revealing a panorama of paths once trodden and words left unvoiced. A gale of remembrance encircles me, a tempest born from the whispers and shadows of yesteryear. It dances through the corridors of my being, a choreography of chaos, each step a memory, each turn a tale untold. The stillness of the night … Continue reading My Nocturnal Reveries

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My dear,

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Who has whispered such untruths into your ear? Who dared to say your skin was anything less than beautiful? Look upon the earth, rich and teeming with life, and see yourself reflected in its depth. You are the color of the fertile ground from which all flowers spring forth. In the deep, rich soil, the seeds find their strength, and blossoms unfurl in a riot of color. Your skin is the canvas of continents, the shade of soil that cradles roots and nourishes beginnings. It is the hue of strength, the tint of resilience, the shade of endless possibilities. Like … Continue reading My dear,

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30 minutes …

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In the fleeting half-hour before the world calls again, I ponder—can the essence of life be unraveled in less time than it takes for the clock to complete its cycle? Perhaps not, but the quest is not without merit. Life, in its boundless forms, from the humble dog to the majestic giant squid, from the goldfish’s silent swim to the birds’ dawn chorus, and even the magnolia buds, poised in slumber—each a thread in the tapestry of existence. It’s all life, isn’t it? A complex web, yet at its core, startlingly simple. So here I sit, with twenty-six minutes on … Continue reading 30 minutes …

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My words …

beatrizesmer

In the fabric of life, every thread tells a tale, intertwined with the hues of our encounters. As I sit here, pen in hand, the world outside fades to a whisper, and the dance of words across the page becomes my sole reality. These words are more than mere symbols; they are the embodiment of my laughter and tears, the silent witnesses to the symphony of my inner world. They are the confidants of my secrets, the carriers of my joys, and the solace for my sorrows. With each stroke of the pen, I paint a portrait of my soul, … Continue reading My words …

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100 years old

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Today, I am 100 years old, my heart dances to the rhythm of a tambourine, vibrant and resonant. “Give me a kiss, my love,” I whisper, for today is not just another day—it’s a testament to a life richly lived. Stepping onto the asphalt, I feel the pulse of the city, the heartbeat of the world beneath my feet. Around us, the fools may frolic, their laughter mingling with the symphony of existence. The red traffic light, like a vigilant sentinel, halts the march of time, if only for a moment. In my pocket, a few cents jingle—the price of … Continue reading 100 years old

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Whispers of the Cosmos

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The universe, a cosmic symphony, listens to our quiet pleas. It takes requests, not demands, weaving stardust into our fate. What is meant to be will unfurl, regardless of our fleeting emotions. The celestial loom spins threads of destiny, threading constellations through our souls. Life, a fragile vessel, cradles moments like precious gems. Too short for insipid wine, it beckons us to savor the nectar of existence. Meditate not on shadows but on sun-kissed dreams. Let bad relationships wither like autumn leaves, leaving space for love’s tender bloom. In the quiet corners of infinity, someone finds you irresistible. Their heart, … Continue reading Whispers of the Cosmos

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In Her Image

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I am my mother’s daughter, woven from the same celestial thread. Our souls, entwined across time, echo in the chambers of existence. My heart, a fragile vessel, mirrors hers. It knows the rhythm of both sinking and soaring—the ebb and flow of love’s tides. When she wept, I tasted salt on my own lips; when she laughed, my spirit danced alongside hers. My voice, a trembling reed, carries her legacy. It quivers with the weight of shared sorrows—the ache of loss, the ache of memory. In the quiet hours, I whisper her name, and the syllables tremble like leaves in … Continue reading In Her Image