"To accomplish the world behind the world,the door behind the door,the wish from ever further away."
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When I was a child, I already longed to return in time, to find again the softness of days gone by.I didn't quite understand why I so often looked back—until the past itself outran me,pushed me,tossed me aside,and became as blurred as any reason that could justify an impulsive choice.
I don't believe I was afflicted by any particular evil.No.I lean more toward the idea that I had simply foreseen their loss—that those madeleines—whatever they were—already carried within them that inevitable end,that absence that would one day ache cruelly.
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Perhaps that was it: fantasy.Yes, I think that's the right word.That word, to me, evokes all that defines youth.
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Fantasy is the carefreeness of a vast world—of fortunate or unfortunate encounters,of discoveries, of bonds that form or unravel beneath ceilings that escape us,and that we defy with what we know, what we learn, what we tame.It's the finest metaphor for what inhabits the nascent beingwhen he sees forms dancing for the first time.
Everything is new, barely believable, unbelievable.Nothing is traced out—everything is free, right up to the firmament.It is life in its purest state—the state of the crystal before it's touched by impurity.
And above all, at that moment,everything that composes the world asks only to be known,to accompany the consciousness that has just emerged toward its coming choices.Nothing is constrained,nothing yet sprawling, imposed, or truly cruel.There are no undercurrents,no sickly minds,no causes greater than the simple act of becoming.There is only what is.
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Yes, at that moment of existence—
Doubts are not really doubts.Feelings are mere stammerings.Hardships are but lessons.
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In the end, nothing is fixed or definitively cut.Everything is malleable, resonating with our own wild thrust,within the limits imposed by innocence.
Or maybe all those things…Perhaps it's simply easier to see them that way?Too adult, perhaps, to soften childhood once you've left it—once life begins to scratch at the layers hidden behind the portrait.
Because let's be honest:for all its greenness, childhood is also a theater of disillusion.If it's so beautiful, it's because it's so short.That period too can harbor trials far more painful,far less bearable than any that come after.Early wounds, planted there, in the chest,leaving hollow gaps where darkness takes root,where what's missing festers.Absences that the future self will struggle to fillwhen looking back over their shoulder.
And for me—where did all those colors go?When did they begin to fade?
I never lacked much before those days of wandering…except, perhaps from the start, a bit of faith in the other.For it's obvious—to any gaze—that it's the other who gives meaning to our acts.It's the other who ends that era so untouched by darkness.It's because of the other that sin is committed,that violence exists.It's through him that we cease to be, and begin to become.
At least, that's how I feel it.Because despite all my efforts to free myself,to understand,to forgive…it's through the otherthat the chance of the just is undone.Because as we grow,those who wish to prove themselvestoo often destroy those who wish only to exist.They force upon us the superiority of their ways of living,as if we were only thereto make them shine brighter.
You could tell me that the other, even cruel, can feel sorrow,regret…but what are such remorses worthwhen they're spoken only to inflate one's own reflection?
Nothing.Absolutely nothing.
There are no right answers.
And then… is it even important to knowthat the other can hurt too?That he can regret his act?To forgive—hmph. What for, huh?Once the deed is done, it is what it is: a result.And in that cycle, half-forgiveness… may be the worst of all.A limbo for cowards.Between those who wish to care but never will,and those who feel obliged.Forgiveness has lost all sincerity.
I think I changed the day I understoodthat they could keep telling us, again and again,that we could be anything we wanted—when in truth, there exists only one paththat guarantees elevation and success.
So… did I deserve this?
Am I nothing but a stepping stonefor another to be applauded?
How ridiculous.
Wh-while he's the one who took my armand never apologized—and I'm supposed to forgive him?Because clearly, there is no forgivenessfor what cannot be recovered.And even… even those they call the allies of goodheard my screams.They saw me writhe in pain.They heard my howlsuntil my voice was gone.Yet none came to help me.Only silence for me—while he had the fanfare.They escorted him.And left me there.
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"At least you learned the lesson."
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I wasn't perfect.But them…And I'm certain that here or elsewhere,it's always the same.Selfishness reigns above all.So why, in the end,should I understand the act of the otherand forgive him—if they all think only of themselves,and none think of me?
Everything I know is containedbetween four walls without an exit.And the scenes painted upon themdepict the story of a nameless Angelwho created this place.No one knows why,nor for how long it's existed.But one name is etched in our memories—the instant we are old enough to remember it:
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[The Hall of the Bound.]
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They say his wish,in creating this place,was to grant the being who lived within itthe means to acttoward the fulfillment of their potential.Thus, he offered:
the belief through his presence,the devotion through his silence,the violence through difference,and finally, the chance to becomethrough the proof of attainment.
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It's true.Perhaps it's thanks to him that I'm still alive,even if I only grasp my memoriesthrough distant nostalgia.And if, at the very least,living means waiting—then he's at least given me that:a place to exist,to endure,and to wait.
And this Hall—for that's what it truly is—houses four villagesthat, together, form our entire world.Among them, some ally, some help each other;others envy, betray.But all are locked in perpetual rivalry—none ever fully love,none ever fully hate.It's a balance always restored—a conflict without a victor.
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"Keep your friends close,but your enemies closer."That's exactly what it is.
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Because in the end,if a victor were to exist—they must never come from another village.It doesn't matter if they believe the same things,share the same history,or have the same chance to escape—they are not of the same wood,and that alone suffices to divide them.And that idea—absurd as it may be—is the law.
Yet these villages are identical.Same architecture.Same number of inhabitants,always balanced,as if by magic.Same resources, same fears, same goals—even the ones they don't admit.
And I, what I sought in my solitude—was precisely what all others fear,and what all those who found itsay they regret.
One thing is certain:they don't want to let go of their own.They want us to stay together—to spend our time together,to laugh together,cry together,pray together.They believe—or want to believe—that the collective can raise the individual,make him worthy of making a difference.
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Ahahahaha.
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But even in my own village—East—it's all façade.The rest is challenge, competition, trial.Yes, they laugh.But all of them are wounded.Inside—in their egos, their wounded pride.And outside—their bodies speak for them:bruises, scars, unspoken pains.They say they love each other.But they're only learning to hate.
Because deep down,even if they're in the same struggle,even if they fight side by sideagainst the other villages…only a few—at best—will earn the right to forgiveness.So once again—why give yourself to a community?
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Me, I'm what they call a child of the book.Because I love them.Because to me, everything here gains life,clarity,as I gather knowledgeand interpretationson every subject.
It's surprising,but the chiefs don't see it badly—on the contrary.We are so few,and "so weak for preferring mind over body,"that as long as we pray,stay together,and belong to a part of the village,there's no harm in serving ourselves.
But the problem is this:the books are limited.The same, in every village.And I've read them.All of them.I've reread them, meditated on them, annotated them…And naturally,I ended up wanting more.
And that… isn't a sin either.
"———."
But our life isn't only about others.It's also—and even more—about what surrounds us,what we call nature.