In the labyrinth of childhood, where innocence and wisdom intertwine, we are handed a series of enigmatic scrolls—the teachings of elders, the echoes of tradition. First, they whisper to us in hushed tones: “Be good, little one, and the world will bestow upon you gifts aplenty.” And so, we tiptoe along the tightrope of virtue, balancing our deeds like fragile porcelain, hoping that our goodness will yield a harvest of treasures.
But then, the winds shift, and the scrolls unfurl further. The elders, their eyes alight with fervor, reveal another truth: “Beware, for there lies a fiery abyss where sinners writhe in eternal torment. Hell awaits those who stray from the path.” Suddenly, the world is not just a garden of delights; it is a cosmic courtroom, and our every misstep is weighed against the weight of our souls.
And so, we learn to tread carefully, our hearts heavy with the burden of salvation. We memorize verses, rituals, and dogmas—words that sometimes defy reason, concepts that elude comprehension. “Recite,” they say, “for knowledge is the key to acceptance.” And so, we commit to memory the equations of existence, even when they seem to dissolve into mist upon our tongues.
Yet, in this relentless pursuit of approval, something fractures within us. The light of curiosity dims, and the colors of passion fade. We become bruised, our spirits scathed by the rigidity of conformity. The dreams we once cradled like fragile birds slip through our fingers, replaced by the weight of expectations. We chase grades, accolades, and certificates, hoping they will grant us passage into the hallowed halls of acceptance.
But perhaps, dear wanderer, it is not wonder that you bear but weariness—a weariness etched into your bones, your very essence. You are the seeker who has lost sight of the stars, the dancer whose feet ache from rehearsed steps. You are the poet silenced by rigid syllables, the artist whose canvas is confined by borders.
Yet, take heart, for the scrolls do not end here. They unravel further, revealing a final truth—a truth that transcends doctrine and dogma. When you cradle your own little one, when their eyes mirror the universe’s wonder, you will remember. You will remember the ache, the longing, the yearning for authenticity. And in that moment, as you hold their tiny hand, you will find the courage to say what was once denied to you:
“I love you.”
And those three words, unshackled from fear and expectation, will be your rebellion—a rebellion against the rigid scripts, the stifling norms. For love, my dear, is the truest magic—the alchemy that turns bruises into blossoms, scars into constellations. And as you whisper those words, you will mend the fractures within you, stitching together a tapestry of grace, woven with threads of vulnerability and acceptance.
So, let the scrolls gather dust, and let your heart unfurl. For in the quiet of that sacred exchange, you will find redemption—a redemption that transcends heaven and hell, grades, and acceptance. And your little one, cradled in your arms, will know the warmth of love’s embrace—the most beautiful prose ever written.
Copyright © Beatriz Esmer
Beatriz Esmer 