Tag: writing

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Canvas of Emotions

beatrizesmer

Haven’t you ever wanted to be able to capture the raw emotion you feel when you’re depressed, petrified, elated, or in love? To have the complex ability to convey those feelings smoothly with ink, lead, or paint onto a blank piece of paper, acting as your canvas? In moments of deep solidarity, we become acutely aware of these feelings—those elusive, untranslatable emotions that defy the limits of language. They grip us tightly, like the weight of forgotten regrets and the ache of past mistakes. Tears well up, revealing only a hint of the complexity of sadness within. And then there’s … Continue reading Canvas of Emotions

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When You Miss Me

beatrizesmer

If you miss me, let it not be in the quiet of solitude or the depths of despair. No, not then. For in those moments, my absence should not weigh upon your heart like an anchor. Instead, let it be when the sun dances upon your skin, when laughter echoes through your veins, and when life unfurls its vibrant tapestry before you. Let it be when you have everything—the world at your fingertips, dreams within reach, and joy bubbling up like a hidden spring. And yet, despite it all, a whisper of longing tugs at your soul. When the moon … Continue reading When You Miss Me

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Transcription of the Heart

beatrizesmer

I am a scribe of emotions, an alchemist of ink. My quill dances across the parchment, weaving whispers, and echoes into existence. Each stroke etches memories, hopes, and yearnings—the very essence of my being. These pages, like silent witnesses, cradle my confessions. They harbor the rhythm of my pulse, the cadence of my longing. Ink spills like tears, and the paper absorbs my secrets, inkling by inkling. One day, when the sun has set its final blaze and the moon weaves its silver threads through the night, these pages will remain. They’ll outlast my fragile bones, my fleeting breath. They’ll … Continue reading Transcription of the Heart

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The Inaccuracy of Us

beatrizesmer

There are no ready-made scripts, only characters and improvised dialogues of our ups and downs. A love that blooms unexpectedly, or one that teeters on the edge of ceasing. No necessary paths, just those that serve us and those that do not. No right door, only those that swing open and those that remain stubbornly shut. Sometimes, the best choice is not to choose at all. The most profound answer may be silence—a quiet surrender to the vastness of existence. And the cure that heals us, paradoxically, lies in feeling hurt. To live fully, we must embrace the possibility of … Continue reading The Inaccuracy of Us

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Museum of Tragedies

beatrizesmer

In the quiet chambers of flesh, where veins weave stories, women harbor more than mere existence. They are not vessels for sorrow, but rather, repositories of resilience. Each curve, each scar, whispers a saga—a delicate tapestry woven from threads of joy and pain. The body, a museum of tragedies, houses memories etched in skin, eternally inscribed. The weight they bear is not a burden, but an ocean—an expanse of saltwater and secrets. They navigate its depths, tides rising and falling, yet never succumb to drowning. For within them resides the alchemy of survival—the art of transforming grief into strength. They … Continue reading Museum of Tragedies

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Whispers of Abril

beatrizesmer

Happy Abril! Within the quiet walls of my hermitage, I find solace. Every wind that brushes against my window, every delicate flower that blooms in my garden, they all whisper poetry to my soul. Love, once a warm flame, has transformed into a bittersweet ache. Another love, lost to the relentless march of time, lingers like a fading melody. No one else resides here—only the echoes of memories and the shadows of what was. The walls of my mind, sturdy and unyielding, insist that happiness lies within these familiar confines. They tell me love is not essential for survival, that … Continue reading Whispers of Abril

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Stitching Time

beatrizesmer

I am a poor tailor of time. My fingers fumble with the delicate fabric of moments, trying to weave coherence from chaos. But the measurements elude me, slipping through my grasp like sand. The cloth always falls short, leaving frayed edges and unfinished seams. Pockets of hours, those tiny sanctuaries, mock me. They are too small, insufficient for the grand designs I envision. I stitch them together, patchwork-style, hoping to create a quilt of purpose. Yet, the threads tangle, forming knots of uncertainty. My routine becomes a labyrinth, a maze of missed stitches and dropped needles. And in this weaving, … Continue reading Stitching Time

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The Elders Wisdom

beatrizesmer

In the hallowed halls of ancient wisdom, the Elders speak of a profound truth: to speak is to weave the fabric of reality. With every word uttered, we send forth ripples of vibrational energy, resonating with the very frequency of life itself. Our voices are the conductors of this symphony, our heartbeats the metronome keeping time with the universe’s ceaseless rhythm. Sound, that ethereal sculptor, molds our existence, shaping our thoughts and dreams into tangible form. It is the healer, whose soothing tones can mend the fragmented soul; the motivator, whose rallying cry can ignite the flames of passion; the … Continue reading The Elders Wisdom

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A Grand Ocean

beatrizesmer

In the hallowed halls of our being, we are but mariners adrift in the vastness of ourselves. This body, a grand ocean, cradles the mysteries of the deep—hidden reefs and sunken vaults, where treasures beyond measure lie in wait. Dare to dive beneath the surface, where the light of understanding flickers in the dark, waiting for the spark of curiosity to ignite its flame. In the secret chambers of the soul, kindle your inner lantern, let it guide you through the labyrinthine gardens of the self. Here, in the verdant groves within, rare orchards bloom with wisdom’s fruit, and peacocks … Continue reading A Grand Ocean

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Sacred

beatrizesmer

The sacred is not confined to hallowed halls or holy texts; it is the quietude in a hammock’s sway on a lazy Sunday, the anticipation in an airport’s embrace. It is the stillness between life’s cacophony, a late-night tea, a duvet’s cozy retreat. Sacredness is the aroma of a meal, the earth’s perfume after rain, the silence of a fulfilled desire. It is the window that frames the dying day, the kiss that speaks without words, the surrender of entwined souls. In a room of cherished memories, the sacred finds its home, a gentle reprieve from the mundane. It coexists … Continue reading Sacred