The Mirage

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I’m amazed at the fact that I feel called to take up the pen. Writing is an art I have no experience with, either as a hobby or as a profession. In fact, it might be said that with the exception of school assignments in my boyhood and the clerical tasks relating to my job, I’ve never written anything at all. Even more amazing is the fact that I don’t recall ever having composed a note or a letter in the entire time I’ve lived on earth, which comes to more than a quarter of a century. The truth is that letters — like speech — are a symbol of social life and an expression of the ties that bind people in this world, and these are all things of which I know nothing. Don’t we prune trees, cutting off the branches that have grown crooked? Why is it, then, that we keep people who aren’t fit for life? Why do we show such tolerance — nay, neglect — by imposing such individuals on life, or by imposing life on them against their will? As a result, they roam the earth as frightened strangers, and sometimes they’re gripped with such panic that they go wandering about like someone gone mad with fever, trampling innocent victims beneath their stumbling feet.

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