Hand-written

  I feel like I’m floating. Like I’ve suddenly became a tiny, imperceptible, innocuous feather, trying to preserve its spirit of life, attempting to cherish its fate, as it chose it for itself. I’m not able to see beyond my limits, there’s only vacancy in my sight. I’m confused, I have absolutely no idea what my purpose is, what is the point of me wandering about in perplexity.

After brief deliberation it occurs to me: solitude is my only company in this – I dare to claim – adventure. He is filthy, he exasperates me with his infantile asides, however, I decide not to listen to his revoltingly malevolent thoughts. As time passes, he aggravates me more and more and more...

  Then, I begin to feel the caressive touch of paper on my face. Slowly, I start to wake up, start to notice where I am, what I am doing.  If only I knew why! Catching a glimpse of the great tower of papers in front of me, I recognize the remembrance of my long-lasting agony, what I’ve tried to conceal from the public for so many years, what I’ve been repressing all my life. What I’ve preserved for such reasons I can’t even recall them.

   Hundreds and thousands of hand-written sheets, keeping an unfathomable amount of distress and suffering, but also felicity, joy. I’m not able to get rid of them, I’m not in the right state of mind to utterly forget my past... If I had the courage, I would’ve done it a remarkably long time ago.

But I don’t have the good fortune to be so strong, therefore, I have no choice but to endure their torture. Now they are gazing at me. They have a seducing regard, with a snide light in them, full of dimness, and sententiousness. It’s harrowing. And I can’t resist.

  I tap them.  Gently, tenderly. Then I become flat with a rusty surface, and a dirty surface, transforming into something precisely familiar. Pain enters my body, not deploring me, like a sharp knife, more like an acute pen. I can feel everything at once: happiness, astonishment, dread, gratitude, sadness. But also, I can’t feel anything at all. And I’m powerless, helpless, incapable of dispatch. Just standing, like a straight tower. Keeping someone’s memories.

Herki Hanna IX. R