I can remember words I read only for a little while, so I keep the most treasured pages close.
This way, I can read them again whenever I so desire. But every now and then I ask myself,
Why have I learned how to read in the first place? And, most importantly, why have I learned
how to write? To manoeuvre more shrewdly through all the tedious little dramas of ours?
I know there were times when imagination was a threat. The visionary was nothing but a regular
at the asylum, or even better, burned at the stakes. I am not that stubborn; you can bet on it.
But ever since the winter of my birth passed, I have been looking forward to seeing another
one—the one perceived as a betrayal. Betrayal of what?