Tag: writing

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Our Lives, Woven in Small Hours

beatrizesmer

In the quiet cradle of dawn, where dew-kissed petals unfurl, our lives emerge—a delicate tapestry spun from threads of existence. These small hours, unassuming and tender, hold secrets whispered by the universe. The Little Wonders: They tiptoe through our days, these little wonders. The sun’s first blush on morning leaves, the laughter of children chasing butterflies, the scent of rain on thirsty earth—they nestle within our souls. Each heartbeat, a testament to their magic. We collect them like seashells along the shore, stringing them into necklaces of memory. Twists of Fate: Ah, the cosmic weaver! With nimble fingers, fate dances across our … Continue reading Our Lives, Woven in Small Hours

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Dear Every Person in My Life,

beatrizesmer

In life’s tapestry, woven with threads of time, you stand as a luminous strand—a constellation of moments, both fleeting and eternal. Past, present, future—your essence dances across the fabric of my days, leaving footprints on the shores of memory. To You, Present: Your footsteps echo softly in the corridors of now. Your laughter, a sunbeam that warms my soul. We share this fragile moment, suspended like dewdrops on morning petals. You are the ink in my unwritten chapters, the melody humming beneath my breath. I honor your presence—the way you hold my hand when storms gather, the way your eyes mirror … Continue reading Dear Every Person in My Life,

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Sometimes …

beatrizesmer

Sometimes, when the sun tiptoes across the horizon, painting the world in hues of possibility, there exists a paradox—a quiet battle waged within the chambers of the heart. The strongest souls, those who wear resilience like armor, rise with the dawn. Their footsteps echo with determination, their smiles a veil concealing the weight they bear. They carry burdens unseen, shoulders squared against the tempests of life. To the world, they are pillars of strength, unwavering and unyielding. But nightfall, ah, that tender shroud of darkness—it whispers secrets. When the stars emerge, these same indomitable souls cradle their fragility. Alone in … Continue reading Sometimes …

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The Poet’s Solitude

beatrizesmer

What has made me a poet? Only this: those silent ravings—the tempests that churn within when the world presses too close. Even in the arms of those I have most loved, there blooms an ache—an insatiable hunger for solitude. The desire to escape—to slip through the cracks of existence, to be alone with my thoughts—becomes a beacon. It pulses, immutable, like a distant star. And in that yearning, all becomes uncanny—the familiar streets, the faces, the whispered secrets. I have loved deeply—oh, how I have loved! But love, too, can be a tempest—a wild sea that threatens to engulf the … Continue reading The Poet’s Solitude

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Threads of Creation

beatrizesmer

The masterpiece begins with the pencil sketch—a hesitant line on blank paper. It trembles, unsure of its purpose. But within that graphite stroke lies the seed of creation—the spark that will ignite galaxies. The novel, too, emerges from chaos. Its first draft is a tempest—a whirlwind of characters, plot twists, and half-formed sentences. The words stumble over each other, seeking coherence. Yet, within this messiness, stories take root—their roots burrowing deep into the soil of imagination. And the symphony? Ah, it begins with a simple hum—a melody whispered over morning coffee. The composer sips, eyes closed, listening to the notes … Continue reading Threads of Creation

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Whispers of the Unseen

beatrizesmer

In the hallowed corridors of childhood, I discovered secrets—the kind that shimmer like dew-kissed spiderwebs at dawn. My hands, once tangible and solid, would vanish when I least expected. They’d slip through the veil between reality and wonder, leaving me a mere observer in my own tale. And oh, the toys—they harbored mischief. When the room darkened, they stirred, their wooden limbs creaking. Tin soldiers marched, porcelain dolls pirouetted, and plush animals whispered secrets. I’d lie there, eyes wide, watching their silent ballet—a clandestine performance for my eyes alone. Stillness became my ally. If I held my breath, the birds … Continue reading Whispers of the Unseen

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Ephemeral Echoes

beatrizesmer

Sometimes, I am gifted fragments of existence—fleeting glimpses that dance before my eyes. These delicate shards of reality, like fireflies in twilight, refuse to fade. They cling to my soul, etching themselves into the tapestry of memory. There exists a place—an ethereal threshold where dreams and waking life intertwine. Perhaps it is real, or perhaps it resides within the secret chambers of my heart. Regardless, I have visited it countless times, tracing its contours with the tender brushstrokes of my imagination. On that porch—a sanctuary of weathered wood—I sit, gazing out over a sun-kissed yard. The sun, a benevolent artist, … Continue reading Ephemeral Echoes

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Echoes of Absence

beatrizesmer

There is a disembodied sadness, a phantom ache that lingers in the hollows of memory. It emerges from the chasm between having and not having, a silent lament for what once was and what now eludes our grasp. The presence of touch, once warm and intimate, has been bartered away, replaced by the presence of absence—a void that gnaws at the edges of our souls. How awful it is—the way time unravels our certainties, leaving us with frayed threads of longing. Sundays, those quiet interludes, become vessels for coffee and the art of not opening our eyes wide enough to meet the day’s gaze. We cocoon ourselves in half-slumber, shielding … Continue reading Echoes of Absence

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I love …

beatrizesmer

I love bluntly, for pleasure, union of the vertebrae, conjunction of the knees, saucy, beautifully, overdose of courage and for not having judgment, lack of occupation, longing, rules. I love the looks, the moonlight, the taste of the kiss, the naughty smiles, joy without reason and feet off the ground. I love the feeling of belonging to my love, by the cold in the hands, shivering legs, goosebumps at the back of the neck. I also love because loving gives me thousands of butterflies in my stomach. I love the absence of theories to love. I love because I get … Continue reading I love …

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Beneath my chest

beatrizesmer

In the quiet moments of solitude, I often found myself drawn to the rhythm beneath my chest, where the symphony of life played out in a dance of breath and heartbeat. With each gentle touch, I felt the subtle tremors of existence, a reminder of the intricate machinery that sustained me. It was not a mystical force that pulsed within me, but a raw, tangible power—the power to persist, to persevere in the face of trials and tribulations. A power not of spells or incantations, but of resilience and fortitude, the sheer will to continue on when the world grows … Continue reading Beneath my chest