Follow your heart

PREFACE

Thus, I am silent, trembling in my place,

Not from disdain, nor yet a heart’s disgrace.

Nay, ’tis the weight of love, too vast, too deep,

That binds my tongue and bids my silence keep.

Let this poor book, my messenger, unfold,

The truths of hearts unspoken, yet untold.

Within its pages, find my soul laid bare,

A plea for justice in life’s fleeting air.

William Shakespeare

The first lines I ever wrote emerged one day in the quiet solitude of a blank notebook. I began not merely to describe what I observed, but to capture the essence of what I felt. At the time, I was steeped in sorrow, mourning a father whose memory was but a shadow. Though I scarcely recall his presence, he lived. And now, he is no more. How I longed for him to sit before me, clad in a cerulean sweater – as he once appeared in a dream – a man of quiet strength, with the noble visage of a young Alain Delon and eyes brimming with wisdom. How I yearned to hear him say, “If you were born, it is because this world needs you. Your path is written; you must find it. And within it, your truest self.” But no such words came. I shall never know what it means to have a father’s voice guide me.

As the evening deepened and shadows embraced the room, the rustle of a weeping willow outside drew my thoughts, and I wrote these lines for him:

Weeping willow, why do you bow so low,

Your branches trembling where soft waters flow?

Why do the tears of the earth, like frozen pearls,

Hang on your crown, veiling the world?

Why does my heart bear a shard of despair,

A cold, cruel fragment etched with care?

You left too soon, beyond clouds’ veil,

And now my castle lies in ruins, frail.

You vanished forever, yet left a flame,

A dream that whispers your sacred name.

You are gone, and I am bereft,

As though half of my soul has cleft.

Weeping willow, you guard my grief,

Your shelter offering fragile relief.

Tears fall silent, carving their way,

Through dreams that pierce the heart each day.

This book speaks to you, dear reader. It holds fragments of my soul, whispers of answers, or perhaps faint echoes of your own fears: the chill of solitary sunsets, the silence of unyielding walls, and the fleeting joy of a sunlit breeze, a distant dream that illuminates the soul. Dreams are not mere steps toward an end; they are the journey itself, revealing who we are and why we exist. What is life? A dream? A temptation? Perhaps only in the void left by loss do we begin to glimpse the answer.

For years, I guarded these pages, hesitant to let them see the light. Now, you hold my first book in your hands. The second waits in the wings, long adrift like a spectral ship navigating the seas of my heart. There are those who will find joy – yes, joy – in knowing this book has come to life. They will wait, with reverence, for what follows.

What is this book? Who is its hero, and why will it be read? A book is first and foremost needed by the one who writes it. Through writing, we traverse the labyrinth of words and uncover fragments of ourselves. Is this a tale? A poem? A legend? A truth? Chaos or the final sigh of a fading philosophy? The essence of life lies in learning to listen and to see, to create and to feel, to remain steadfast and true to oneself, in harmony with the infinite.