I thought of writing of these times of Great Calamity. Not because I had become wise, but lest I forget. Bitter lessons, one after the other, I swallowed, and my face became a stiff grimace – unrecognizable. If you know me, friend, you must see, you must feel by now that your friend, your dearest writer friend – his mind is scarred, this time, badly.
I have lost the sense of words, and yet I speak. Insane – I cannot stop talking. The webs I weave are not as strong, the leaps I make are not as large, the song of my thoughts is not as sweet. And yet here I am, birthing wind for my own sails, and my banner – although torn, dances.
I have become as mindless as an old man, repeating, like a broken record, the same three stories. But do I know them well, oh, have I tasted them. I suffered through their dark beginnings, I climbed to their frozen peaks, and I made the descent into maturity. My eyes stare at you deeply, madly, and I tell you – I am only a mirror. One day you will find yourself reduced, and yet – somehow larger. Twisted and bent into something new, like the turning of an hourglass – your sands flow in the wrong direction, and yet it is right.
I was a fool, you find. By the Grace of the Lord, I was such a fool. And I still am. Worth, alas, is a far as it ever was. Your ideal – unreachable. Your guide – mute. And yet, kneeling at the feet of the Creator, you will learn – no, it has not been for nought…
I lived and I saw it all to the end. I stumbled and I fell, I twisted my ankle, I broke my foot. Has the path become easier, then, has the earth become smaller? Has the ideal become shorter like a shadow nearing noon? It cannot be.
It must be that you have grown,
it must be that you have carried yourself