In the Narrow Corridors of Lost Time

In the narrow corridors of lost time, where light seeks its shadows in dusty corners, words sit like butterflies with heavy wings, suffering under the weight of unspoken silences. In the silent cells of a forgotten world, my books traverse walls, like birds searching for the sky in a windowless world, trying to free thoughts trapped in chains of paper. I wrote for those who bear invisible burdens, for those who find solace in lines, but literature, a mystery to the ordinary mind, weaves into the soul like a forgotten melody, a song even the rarest of us cannot understand without feeling its pain. Poetry, a labyrinth of emotions, sheds complicated meanings, leaving behind clear, human words, like an honest gaze in a world of masks. Williams called for clarity, and I followed, seeking to open paths for those who have forgotten how to see. But writing is one thing, life another, we improve the words, but our lives remain stuck in the same patterns, like birds repeatedly striking the glass of painful transparency. Perhaps, by writing better, living more beautifully, we will make life ashamed of itself. Maybe artists were never strong enough, maybe those who rule the world were too strong, and we, pale and precious, let words flow like a river never finding its sea. But art, in its intimacy, bears the same burden: women, governments, God, love, hate, poverty, slavery, insomnias and roads without destination, times and spouses, and all the rest… A man in a cell dislikes how commas dance, how words stray from their path to capture the exact essence, without knowing the intention is to relax, to humanize, to make words like butter or avocado, something you can grasp and taste, like a simple and nourishing meal for the soul. Art may wander, but it keeps the essential form, like Dostoevsky or Bach, who taught us to layer melodies one over the other, creating a symphony of hidden meanings. I do not defend my work, but the right to create it in a way that makes me feel alive. A writer's boredom is the reader's boredom, and perfection is just a myth, an illusion keeping us away from the truth. You, in the neighboring cell, receive this letter as a gift, as a whisper of hope and freedom, for art needs only the freedom to be itself, imperfect and real, in a world that forgets to listen.