The Imprints of Human Connection

I want to write about the language of touch, the silent conversations held in the clasp of hands, the secrets whispered through fingertips. I want to write about the way a mother's hand can soothe a child, the way a lover's touch can ignite a spark, the way a friend's comforting pat can ease a burden.

I want to write about the domestic dance of marriage, the rhythm of routine, the melody of shared moments. I want to explore the growing void that can creep into the most intimate of spaces, the separate beds in a shared room, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

I want to write about the interplay of light and dark, the way a face is illuminated in the soft glow of a setting sun, the way shadows can carve out new features, new identities. I want to write about the silent dialogue between two shadows on a brick wall, two silhouettes on a road, their stories unfolding in the quiet of the night.

I want to write about the woman at the window, her hands moving rhythmically in the sink, her voice carrying a melody from a time when she was young, when she was reckless, when she was in love. I want to write about the boy inside the man, the dreams he still carries, the memories he still cherishes.

I want to write about the passage of time, the relentless march of seasons, the cruel reality of aging. The skin that once was firm and smooth, now loose and wrinkled, carrying the imprints of a lifetime. The eighty-year-old skin that still tingles at the memory of a touch from its twenty-first year, its thirty-fifth, its fiftieth.

Time, the most complex mechanism in the world, is all there is to anything. It is the canvas on which we paint our lives, the stage on which we perform our roles, the thread that binds us all. And that, in essence, is all I want to write about.

Copyright ? Beatriz Esmer