Raindrops

In a world obsessed with beauty, it may seem paradoxical to hear someone express their discontent with being beautiful. After all, beauty is often celebrated, admired, and coveted by many. However, for some individuals, the façade of beauty hides a world of pain and hardship. In this personal reflection, I delve into the complexities of why I hate being beautiful and how it has brought me more pain than joy.

Being beautiful often invites superficial judgment and objectification. People tend to focus solely on appearances, neglecting the person beneath the surface. This constant scrutiny can be suffocating, leaving one feeling like an object on display rather than a human being deserving of respect and understanding.

Society places unrealistic expectations on the beautiful, expecting them to live up to an idealized image. These expectations can be overwhelming and lead to self-doubt and a constant fear of not meeting societal standards. The pressure to maintain a flawless appearance can be exhausting, both mentally and physically, as it requires constant effort and sacrifice.

Paradoxically, beauty often breeds jealousy and envy in others, leading to animosity and negative experiences. People may perceive beauty as a threat, leading to alienation and isolation. Genuine connections become rare as people's intentions are constantly questioned, causing emotional pain and a sense of loneliness.

Beauty has a peculiar way of attracting attention, but it doesn't guarantee meaningful relationships. Often, people are drawn to the surface-level allure rather than the depth of character within. This superficiality can result in hollow connections, leaving one feeling empty and unfulfilled. The desire for genuine connection becomes a distant dream when beauty becomes a barrier.

Then, the internal struggles that accompany beauty are often overlooked. Constantly being praised for one's appearance can lead to self-esteem issues as true validation becomes intertwined with external validation. Insecurities and self-doubt can creep in, eroding one's confidence and sense of self-worth.

I released the birds, the ones that I had huddled between the saved words, the ones that were hidden in the basements of other houses that were not mine, the ones that were caged in some other garden waiting for someone to see them. Today I released the birds, the ones that were wounded and haven't flown for a long time, the ones that were locked up more than a hundred years ago.

I freed the wings that should have taken flight and with them the others were freed, from all the nests, from all the voices that I felt nearby. My soul became light as a feather, and those who came before me to this beautiful land, raised it with the wind of their smiles, it was almost magic.

Talking about what is important, declaring joy as an indestructible flag, feeling the embrace of those who know how to share it, having the courage to leave nothing for later, because later is sometimes the same as late.

I did it on time, I released the birds and the words, and found in the others a garden of welcome, of unconditional love, returning to what is essential. Those we love also have their battles saved, who knows how long they have weighed on their hearts.

Understanding that despite the path we are also those children we were, and that we seek to go out and play again smiling and looking into each other's eyes, is also understanding that in others there is fragility and innocence that needs to be told, that breaking the silence heal bodies and souls. Talk about everything you need, share your dreams, don't save anything for later, because sometimes it can get late.

Luckily I didn't die every time I wanted to die, that I didn't jump off the bridge or fill my wrists with blood, or throw myself on the road, far away.

Luckily I did not tie the rope to the ceiling beam, nor did I buy a dose of eternal sleep at the pharmacy, with a false prescription.

Luckily I was afraid: of knives, of heights, but above all of not dying completely and staying there –even more lost than before looking without seeing–.

That day a part of me died, it went with you, you can recover from anything, but sometimes what you lost takes something from you, something that you simply cannot recover, you are not the same person again, things do not come back to be the same, you learn to deal with it, life goes on, but then one night you lie in bed, and you ask life, why did you make me believe that it would be different?

Why did you take me out of my reality to get me into a bubble of happiness if in the end when I was at the top you were going to break it?

I hug memories that never happened, I tie myself to the rope that cuts my neck, my decisions on the list of things that must never be made. You left me waiting between Everything and Nothing, you sang songs to me from afar, but you didn't get close, there is something cowardly in the brave act of never being.

I fantasized about throwing myself off the highest hill, I knew you wouldn't miss me. I fantasized about flying like birds fly, as if my wings might one day grow.

And the highest hill told me come closer, and in the absence of your hands I approached, the only one that whispered to me was laziness, melancholy appeared some time later, but in silence.... and the sweet wind invited me to fly with him.

I fantasized about the sky splitting in two, with my little cry and that you are my God. I who have adored you every year at harvest time and also when the sun does not rise. Where do I sign to be adored by you?

I fantasized about being the Devil, masked with a false image of God, breaking your heart like worthless glass. With the remains of your non-existent heart lying next to the remains of my own heart.

A woman is beautiful being a woman because she is art and art always burns because it never goes out. A woman should not be a perfect body or stroke, she should not be an elegant tongue or a brilliant mind, she should not be a divine painting or exquisite taste, she should not be a trophy or a requirement, a woman should be a woman. .

A muse is sought to dedicate poems, to avoid the sadness and cold of this August. A muse is sought to warm the skin and the soul, and thus forget that we are ephemeral. A muse is sought to inspire rainy days, redeem the sunny days, reconcile the past with dreams, and put nightmares aside. A muse is sought to create days worth repeating, to contemplate beaches and parks, embrace each other in public defying fear, and look at the sky with the certainty that even God smiles if he sees us together. 

A muse is sought to scare loneliness, to overcome together the distance of silence, the borders of pride, the abysses of absence. A muse is sought to end the unspoken words, to be brave again, baring the soul. A muse is sought to demonstrate that neither the clouds remain so high, nor is freedom impossible, a muse is sought to give a home to the orphaned poems that still inhabit my soul, eager to go out and conquer the same smile several times. A muse is sought to stop thinking in halves, to fill this cold bed, to share three sheets, two pillows, and a thousand lives. 

People walk with lost eyes, perhaps in a tortuous past or in an anxious future.

Tied up in the time of uncertainty, the present is lost, where the steps are walked, where the air is breathed.

Tied to time, our wings lose feathers. Feet tired of repeating the same paths, over and over again.

We are puppets of time, entangled in its trap, lost in its endless circle.

A scream is born from my chest, little by little it gains strength, takes over my voice and controls my mouth. Try to let go of what I kept silent for so long, the words spurt out from between my lips, lips that now smile.

A woman seems sleepy and tries to open her eyes, she begins to get up and I think I recognize her, her face is vague, but I know that it is her, that it is me, that we are, that we are the same. She was sedated, hidden, inert in the darkness inside me, she let others take control of her steps, allowed other voices to speak with her mouth and other logs to fuel her fire until one day she simply became alien.

Return to love understood as the maximum expression of goodness. How the true state of healing and gratitude with the universe.

Return to love to understand the little things that make us happy and how insignificant the great deeds driven by selfishness are.

Return to love as a revolutionary tool by predilection. The only one capable of stopping the war.

Return to love from the fraternal, humble and supportive.

Return to love because love is home and shelter.

Create short verses of affection, without a doubt

Look for words that rhyme in the story

The nights are long and the days lose their brightness without your gaze

Those who wake up from eternal sleep Those who see you in your sweet abode

A light in the midst of nebulous darkness

Time stops in your breath

I saw you hypnotized, like the astronaut who finds three roses on a comet, like the scientist who discovers the magic behind a kiss.

And she, seeking to look at the stars, leaning on telescopes and binoculars... always taking refuge in the supposed unattainable, always admiring cosmic altars.

And she, sitting on the edge of the window, every night and every day... insisting on waking up the stars, catching a comet and making it her traveling companion.

And she, inspired, trying to reach with her hands the infinity of a sparkling horizon. She, confused, dazed girl... panting cloud.