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Who am I, after all is said and done? A long time ago a prophecy was uttered, naively underestimating its own weight. A pre-pubescent teen, not yet used to the length of his arms and his place in the world. “The reason I get up in the morning”. What is? I might try to forget - might try to hide - but like an ostrich with his head in the sand such an undertaking serves nobody except itself. Aversion to pleasure is no more the acceptance of pain than the most indulgant hedonist might approach on her most effective days. The fact remains. It lulls me into sleep: comfort. It leads me away from the challenges I know I have to face. It weakens my resoluteness. To hold back is not fair to either of us. Words not written, not uttered, what are they? Dead? No! They are alive as much in the basement of a rotten house as on the stage of gold. When locked in, they knock, they crash, they boom, and eventually, they break free. Their pent-up energy leaves no room for imagination in the violent outbursts they finally demand as retribution. In the wake of the dead, one is not sure if its luck that is experienced. Am I happy to bear witness to that which so many faltered on the way to accomplish, or sad in the midst of loneliness that such a thing necessarily bears as fruit?