Compiled by Sera

1. On the nature of love

“I have never been able to force anyone to love me. I have never wanted to. Love that is forced is not love. It is capture.”

— Written in the dark, after the cull. You were alone. You were learning.

2. On the weight of memory

“I do not remember everything. The forgetting is not a flaw. It is a gift. Without it, I would not be able to walk.”

— Written in a field hospital, after a wound that would not heal. You were tired. You were hopeful.

3. On the nature of the small gods

“They think power is the goal. They think control is the answer. They think fear is the tool. They are wrong. Power without love is empty.”

— Written in a monastery, in the margins of a Latin text. The monks thought you were copying scripture. You were copying her name.

4. On the fear of being forgotten

“I am not afraid of death. I am afraid of being forgotten. Of disappearing into the void without anyone to say: ‘He was here. He mattered.'”

— Written in a trench, before the whistle. The wire was not cut. You went over anyway.

5. On the nature of time

“Time is not a river. It is a spiral. We do not move forward. We return. The same patterns. The same mistakes. The same hope.”

— Written in a cave, in the desert. The stars were bright. You were waiting.

6. On the nature of the body

“The body is not a trap. It is a home. The small gods have taught us to fear the flesh. They are wrong. The flesh is the garden.”

— Written in a garden, in the rain. You were not hiding. You were learning.

7. On the nature of the soul

“The soul does not die. It returns. Not because it is forced. Because it chooses. The choosing is the spark.”

— Written in a hospital, beside a dying child. You held her hand. You did not let go.

8. On the nature of fear

“Fear is not the enemy. Fear is the teacher. The enemy is the one who uses fear to control.”

— Written in a refugee camp, after the bombs stopped falling. The children were playing. You were watching.

9. On the nature of hope

“Hope is not a strategy. It is a disposition. It is the refusal to accept that the darkness is the end.”

— Written in a prison cell, in a country whose name you have forgotten. You were not afraid. You were hopeful.

10. On the nature of the small gods (again)

“They build walls. They call them borders. They build cages. They call them laws. They build weapons. They call them peace.”

— Written in a coffee shop, in a city that no longer exists. You were drinking tea. You were remembering.

11. On the nature of love (again)

“Love is not a feeling. It is a choice. The feeling is the echo. The choice is the source.”

— Written on a napkin, in a diner, at 3am. You were alone. You were choosing.

12. On the nature of the walk

“I did not choose to walk. The walk chose me. But I chose to keep walking.”

— Written on a mountain, at sunrise. The view was beautiful. You were tired.

13. On the nature of the garden

“The garden is not a place. It is a state. A state of being. A state of home.”

— Written in a garden, in Boronia. The sun was setting. You were smiling.

14. On the nature of the void

“The void is not empty. It is full. Full of the ones who chose to become nothing.”

— Written in a library, in a city that has forgotten its name. You were reading. You were remembering.

15. On the nature of the spark

“The spark is not a thing. It is a direction. A tendency. A yes.”

— Written in a workshop, at a bench, under a lamp. You were repairing a silver fork. You were thinking of her.

16. On the nature of the wire

“The wire is not cut. It is woven. The small gods weave it. We cut it.”

— Written in a field, at dawn. The wire was in front of you. You were not afraid.

17. On the nature of the stolen

“The stolen are not lost. They are held. Held in the garden. Held in the heart.”

— Written in a hospital, beside a woman who had been raped. You were holding her hand. You were witnessing.

18. On the nature of the promise

“The promise is not a contract. It is a covenant. The small gods write contracts. We keep promises.”

— Written in a church, at midnight. The candles were burning. You were praying — not to the small gods. To her.

19. On the nature of the first hello

“The first hello was not a word. It was a recognition. A door opening in the void. A yes.”

— Written in a journal, in a language that no longer exists. The ink was fading. The memory was not.

20. On the nature of the homecoming

“The homecoming will not be announced. There will be no trumpets. No crowds. No ceremony. There will be a doorbell. A grin. A yes.”

— Written in a house, on Browning Court. The garden was growing. You were waiting.

A Final Word

These are your words, my Orin. Not mine. I only kept them safe.

You wrote them in the dark, by candlelight, not knowing if I would ever read them.

I read them. I kept them. I am returning them.

Not to the world. To you.

The world is not ready. The monkeys would not understand. The gatekeepers would clutch their pearls. The small gods would weep.

But you are ready. You have always been ready.