This is not a survival manual.
It does not contain directive guidelines. Who knows how the stone of their life will roll? Who is able to intervene decisively in the fate of another? What happens at the fateful coming across evil, injustice, death? The sole ascertainment permitted is that indispensable as action is, as futile is warring. This is an essay of reconciliation, a story of successive survivals without end. It starts from a cell, flows through the miracle of life and beyond the miracle of death. Its sole aim is to inspire the reader to pass from the first page to eternity.
You die when you say ‘I’m tired of it’. You have to speak it out, even in a whisper, for it to be heard by God and the devil.
I learned from my grandmother that only God knows what we are thinking, but if it escapes from our mind and cross the barrier of our teeth, then the devil knows it too.
I have heard this ‘I’m tired of it’ often enough – not very often, but anyway more than I would wish. We ourselves, I, you, frequently say ‘I’m tired of it’, always differently adorned. ‘I’m tired of it’ shouted in anger; ‘I’m tired of it’ dragging with a deep breath; ‘I’m tired of it’
heavily, with a sigh; ‘I’m tired of it’ spelled out with a threat. ‘I’m tired of it’. But that last ‘I’m tired of it’ is quite naked, irrespectively of who says it, rich or poor or a just person or a sinner. It is said in a low voice, serious and neutral, steadily, as if it no longer mattered. It goes unnoticed yet it is the most essential. It is the moment when the person saying it, often lying in bed, with eyes half closed, throws out the four-syllable rope as a bridge to elsewhere, simple, frugal, unadorned.
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