Quietness: A dialogue with Jorges Luis Borges (see below)

I am assaulted by darkness. The 'writings of light' are elusive, teasing me from the other side of a river I dare not cross. The city is not unknowable. It is a welcome beacon in the shadow of the future – a place I long for and the home of which I cannot speak.

There is nothing sure in life – not even death (though some would argue this). There are days I wish for this time to end. Yet I am reminded that this earth is not my home – and though I have no assurance here that the tears will end, Hope lives in the land across the northern shore.

There is no day and no night. Only time. The one thing I am never afforded. The mist underneath the willow tree that is always just beyond my reach.

Humanity?
I do not want this humanity. I do not understand the dreams that drive us. I do not see the point.
My homeland is the sound of rain on cement, ten thousand languages, a painting inside a cigar box, red sand along the desert shore, laughter heard from across the ocean, the sound of my Father’s voice, the rhythm of his twelve string, Rachmaninoff, and the beat of one man’s heart.

What does it mean that time is living me? Will I wake up one day and wonder where I went?
I have become silent. I do not pass through the multitude now, but walk alone. It is a narrow path that I would not have chosen. I cannot see the finish line.

So this is hope.

Walking anyway.