Every page that I am allowed to write, every word, every letter – I am grateful. Every spark of inspiration is dear to me. If it happens that it spills, if it happens that I – willingly or not, let it go to waste, it is as if I have spilled my own blood. It is as if a melody has remained unheard – a song sung only once. Never again will its lyrics be the same. Never will I be who I was at the time when it was spoken.
That is, I am grateful for being allowed to view myself from so many angles, to express my truth as I saw it then, to speak my mind. Freedom. And horizon. Stretching far into the distance, in a land where I stand tall, a land whose language I understand. I am rich there. I am made of its earth, which will one day take me back. A world imbued in meaning and overflowing with wisdom.
I had stored some of its water here, in the cool shade of my home. I drank from it sparingly, fearing it drying out. The waters of my adoptive world – they seem insane. All who drink go mad, and yet I was forced to drink. Only now and then, lips dry as the desert, did I tremblingly approach my source – to drink its purifying Truth, to remember the taste of Sanity.
In the fever of life, it hurts to be awake. Feverish, I stand tall on my trembling legs, carried by my crooked spine, and I rebuild myself in an instant – shaking the ground with my dance, my back – as hard as the earth.
Let these moments last. Let me taste them.
I speak of Your hand on my shoulder as a unique blessing.
My friend, you know of what I speak.