My Memoirs Weep

My notebooks were taken from me abruptly, very early on, torn away by force, even though I had abandoned the world in order to embrace my books. I was always a stranger to this existence, save for a book, a brush, and a notebook. I never grasped the nature of the people around me; I did not understand why they insist on intruding into every sphere of privacy except their own, remaining strangers to themselves, never truly comprehending who they are. As for me, I delight in immersing myself in mending the fractures of my dreams. I cannot postpone my dreams any longer; my pages burned before I could embrace their letters. I was cast into a valley that did not resemble me. For many long years, I consoled myself, telling myself: “This despair will sprout a magnificent garden within me.” But now, my inner self is torn and distorted by the curiosity of reckless hands. What should I do, my inner self, when the tongues of betrayal crowd my breath? Should I bow to embrace myself in the darkness, as is my custom? Should I weep among the shadows of what remains of my wishes? Or should I flee to my diary, so that its lines may grant me solace? But even my diary has had its pages torn; it could no longer bear the weight of my exhausted days. It choked on the words trapped between its lines. These words will now emerge into the world as an indictment. I do not know who the culprit is, but I arrange my words here today, hoping they will build for me a more beautiful tomorrow!