I wanted to say something.

I wanted to talk about something.

But I ran out of words. A few nouns dried up inside, verbs repeated to the point of boredom, faded adjectives. Repetitive, hesitating, simple sentences.

I slowly notice that all my efforts are in vain: it is mainly the voice; that is what I am lacking for speaking.

If one listens persistently enough to the outside, eventually they become deaf to their own voice, blind to their former dreams, and silent, unable to name their feelings.

There comes a time when collapse is inevitable. Falling to the ground... And taking root in it.

Somehow taking my voice back. Giving birth to myself again. To be born and to breathe, freely.

Thus I leave.

On the wanderings of my inner labyrinth, unknown and long-forgotten stories burst forth in me; flashes and correlations. I push upwards, dig deep, and the shadows only multiply and deepen in the light of the incident rays. Yet, in the splits of worn-out, ragged grievances and faded roles forced upon me, it is as if I would see the weft threads of the Great Story.

Getting closer, getting farther just like adornments are getting closer and farther. And all of a sudden I notice: at some point – on its own the silence inside me and around me has changed. This Silence is soft and velvety. Black, timeless, fertile. The silence of the sleeping motherland. A lined den, a fallen feather, a leaf-covered nest, the silence of snow in the branches

Far from the center, far from arrival, sometimes I think I hear the sound of the heart of the One.

It exhaled and poured out for me – I breathe, freely. I start talking.

Life flows and circulates again, and the roots start to feel the light. They shoot up, and timeless certainty nestles in my cells: the holy breath shines through my light, my beautiful inner self – on its own.

And this on its own: this is Grace itself.

(Quotes: J. Pilinszky, S. Reményik)