I recently happened to read a piece of advice that smacked of compromise, lies, opportunism, and resignation. The writing both disappointed and astonished me. I felt a live wire running through me, from someone who preached well but practiced badly, the same person who would trample on his own mother’s corpse for a moment’s visibility on social media. In that gloomy atmosphere, I saw today destroyed and tomorrow ready to be hanged by those wearing camouflage suits and snake scales. The Character, sensing that I was aware of his false alibis, tried to turn the lie into truth so as not to lose the favor he received from his „masters.” In a moment, he transformed into a turncoat ready to „run away,” limiting himself to saying that we had to adapt to the times. I sensed that one must not let the dung touch oneself. I felt light years away from these dark characters. I saw in them the double within us and the risk of the split between the self and the shadow, as I observed their unleashing impulses as they sought to convert lies into truth. They are the zombies of the century, possessed by a visceral hatred that knows no vaccine because its genome is always mutating and renewing itself even more lethally. I was overcome by a feeling of nausea, because that’s all you can feel when not a man, but a fragment of him, kneels before a Cocotte—ignorant, destructive, lying, traitorous, boastful—at the helm of a vessel of putridity, exulting at every „spectre” she encounters, where it will end up with the coffee grounds in the garbage can.
Poor Culture in the hands of jackals, nothing more than flickering shadows cast by the nightlight on the walls. The surprise when the indignation made me think of the purity of thought, the generosity of the word, and its love that give prestige and value to writing. AHRIMAN or SATAN?
I understood that writing is like family. It is not blood but choice. Suddenly my broken heart was calmed. The accent was that of a newborn abandoned in the arms of a stranger. His rosy little face was sweet, I held him to my chest and he fell asleep kissed by the moon. I understood that only life, and no science, teaches us the courage to live and love.
This creature that fate placed in my arms has become breath, ink, conscience. The mind has begun a long journey among the proud, masters of their wisdom. It did not shout the word or cry, it did not line up like the geese in the swamp or like the clothespins hanging clothes on the line to dry. Writing had the power to burn more than fire, to freeze like a damned soul in hell, but also to spread the light of a thousand-carat diamond.
Words are a war that never sleeps, they know neither laziness nor anguish, they are not a sick creature, and they set out with determination like a soldier at the front. The storm was not enough to discourage them, nor the howl of the wind melting the snow against the windows. They armed themselves with bow and arrows and plunged into the abyss of life. They were as devastating as lightning, generous as a waterfall, and they sang in the most atrocious silence even knowing they could die. Only through ambushes did they understand that the mind comprehends what the eyes capture.
He traveled incognito, having lost track of time. He took refuge in the pages of a book, and that world became his altar and his home.
He told me that the „Voice” cannot be a symbol to be exploited, but a Truth to be protected at all costs. He detached himself from stumps and extras, and in the trenches he remained for a long time without breathing, to survive. He knew that silence was devoid of eyes. His task was to free himself from the power of occult overmanagement. He knows he is breath, existence, and not a sterile plaster cast in the rain, nor a commodity to be sold off, but silent resistance, indestructible strength. The word is pain, pain is memory. A torment against oblivion, because life is made of rules and choices.
Writing, this family of words, this meticulous tangle of veins and arteries, skin, bones, and pores resemble the spores of ferns, creatures of the forest and the undergrowth. It’s anxiety that grips me and that I sew onto myself, patch after patch. Precisely in these „spotted” territories, I am frowned upon and a potential prey for vultures and hunters of the „darkness” in search of „game.” In every impervious territory we traverse, it will be difficult, if not impossible, to find certain balances, but we must try to free ourselves from that chaotic „soup” of lying, being awake, finding our own balance.
Problems must be pushed away, and we cannot live by running away. Every war is the macabre result of agitated minds, sharpened tongues, and hearts in revolt. We must free ourselves from the darkness within. Peace is a luxury. It remains a compass without a needle, a tormented soul because it is often a means and not an end. The humanitarian facade, the poetic parades, and so much more are part of a global chessboard where the black shadow of the ego holds the whip in its hand. It would be useful to gain experience in the desert, beyond the concepts derived from mystagogy; It means coming to terms with the essentials of existence, between mutilated truths and suspended sentences, crimes and abuses filed away, disappearing traces and justice dissolved.
The word survives every death, and, even when not bejeweled, though fragile, its spontaneous elegance is absolute. Indeed, it survived like a rotten garment on the skin of innocent victims and overcame those diseases that were instruments of extermination, when the shadow fell obliquely over the camp. The word was only a child with a fragile body, with fingers blistered to the wrists, cheeks streaked with tears, grazed knees, bleeding feet.
Her innocence was marked by contempt. In that desert of death, not even the voice had a voice to distract the pain. It was only a note forgotten in the fog, but not resigned. She continued her journey because she had been „called” to share not what divides, but what unites, with her delightful presence, with her silent fidelity. It is our Spirit that cannot be owned, but is guarded, sheltered from the most ferocious tongues of the scalpel.
A saying goes: „I am the spirit that always denies! And rightly so: for everything that is born is worthy of perishing. It would therefore be better if it were never born. So is everything you call sin, destruction, Good, Evil, my true element” (Faust). Whoever journeys toward good is a wise and safe pilgrim because he has known how to face and cross the swamps of evil. The word is nourished by blood, and even if exiled by all, it will never be forgotten, nor humiliated by the cruelty of time, as a universal symbol of humanity.
Silence, too, is immortal in all that is silenced, even where friendship ceases to be a gift. The word emigrated, tearing the shred of burial cloth from its slender body. Secretly, it searched for the lace of a pillow on which to rest its thoughts, lest its freedom, its conscience, its responsibility be lost. Elsewhere, a hungry dog growled, wandering in the freezing cold that struck it with fury, bending the bare trees. The wind was bad that night, overbearing and with a long, unkempt beard.
The roses smelled of death, the berries bled to the ground, embracing each other as they rolled in the furrow. The leaves, flowers, and herbs seemed like unarmed toy soldiers and defenseless children. It was a samurai at night. Thus, the word, secluded, dignified, like a nocturnal voice, passed through caves, storms, ravines, fought with sea and land monsters on the planets it inhabited. It lost itself in the cosmos, dressed itself in stars, drank the poison of time and History. That night, the silence was as dense and muffled as a sacred temple, and it welcomed her like a queen.
A plethora of „shadows”… They were so close to contemplating the lie… Today, dishonesty, degeneration, shamelessness are in fashion. A cruel, atheistic world that demands obedience, service, and silence from the word. Even the sea rebels from the depths. From dawn to dusk, a puppet show is performed.
„Monsters” fear the truth, but words cannot be abused. „Ghosts” are terrified because everything alive makes noise. That God hanging on my chest is my tomorrow. The vowels were laced like shoes. In my pupils, the dead sailed, ferrying words no one wanted to hear.
I pushed back cruel laughter until I saw dreams transform into „flesh.” I was someone else. I locked my breath in a suitcase, sewed the notes I hid in the hem of my dress. I thought about how science had forgotten its conscience. I sowed wheat, caressed hedges, planted trees. I walked like a tightrope walker through tears, knowing there was a knife pointed at my back. I traveled rugged paths in the company of hawks and wolves. I crossed the vineyards where the sun went to sleep and the word does not reside in oblivion, but is resilience that does not fray. Its bond with the Universe is worth more than a crown.
I continue to travel through the lungs of time, wearing the robe of my solitude; I travel along dirt roads, I glimpse snow-capped peaks where the word challenges the invisible without asking for applause.
Maria Teresa Liuzzo
© 2026, DetectivPress. Toate drepturile rezervate.
