To write, for me, has always been this one outlet, this one respite, in which I can be, float, allow myself to breathe, to be vulnerable, to be, to just plain be. No other aspect of my life has ever let me be, except, dance and music, I suppose. But I was never offered a gift of notes, never even allowed to consider expression in the realm of the senses. I was stuck in the world of words, never-ending, never resting, words, words, that run aimlessly, run because to be still meant death, to be quiet meant losing one's voice, forever. And so I ran, literally and figuratively, ran from grief, from fear, from anything and everything, because to stop and face one's true condition was too unbearably painful. And so in the books and the world of the imaginative, I have lost myself, and my pain became somehow bearable. And for years, I had frantically searched, searched with all my might, a quiet place, a place devoid of secretive meaning, the world where, finally, I'll understand, and I'll forgive. Forgive myself, for being weak, forgive my caregivers, for being human, too human. But the word combinations never ceased to stop – more and more words, definitions, theoretical interpretations had me hypnotized, and in this grew a new kind of pain. The pain of longing for freedom – for the lack of rigid rules, the absence of right and wrong, for emptiness suddenly my soul was striving. And I have not yet found my quiet place – my mind buzzes with billions of bewildering revelations day after day, and I succumb, surrender, and let words guide me. But this time, the words are not merely a crutch, a password to a door to an escape room, a way to shut down the outpour of external energy. It is now, a way, a way in itself, to continue the journey, the search, and maybe, possibly, find companions, to share the voyage with. On the voyage from oneself back home to the innermost being of forever changing human, a human whose fate is not decided yet.