Excerpt: Hope Is A Gentle Flicker

Chapter 1.

Once upon a time, there was a special child who

never aged. To protect it from harm, I hid it

within myself, until one day I forgot it was there.

Each of us looks at the family with unique eyes.

Its image changes depending on the observer, much like a work of art. At times, it’s a mediocre painting we feel compelled to enhance with a lavish frame. Other times, it radiates such perfection it can illuminate even the darkest corners. Yet, it doesn’t just reflect beauty; it can also unveil the more decayed aspects of our existence.

Family is a source of inspiration and joy, a cradle in which we peacefully fall asleep, a safe harbour to which we return after distant journeys. Yet, it is also a den of serpents, a wound that burns like an unquenchable fire, screams that echo through the years and get trapped inside us.

When I look at family, I see gestures that were once someone else’s, now transformed into mine. Expressions that mirror one other. Identical words uttered by different mouths. I see traditions handed down over time; taught with commitment to ensure they aren’t forgotten. I see traumas never confronted, eluded by those who couldn’t understand, and passed onto us who followed, with the expectation that we made ours that which was theirs.

Family is desired, sought after, renounced. It’s salvation, mystery, ruin. It’s forgiveness, reconciliation, mourning.

It’s reason for existence, but also the cause of death.

Within my family I find your names, Adele and Nina.

These names carry with them a pain I wish to leave behind. They bring to the surface wounds created in the past but still capable of bleeding as if to say: “Can’t you see us? We can’t heal!”

If you are here today, holding this book in your hands, reading its pages, I want to thank you. If you are here, it means the day we’ve long been waiting for has finally arrived and that your real nature has prevailed. As for me, I never left.

I wander through old and new experiences, sometimes revisiting what was once mine, other times exploring what intrigues me. I travel paths unknown to you, yet those thoughts always find me. They know where I am and what I do. Whether I seek them or not, they intertwine in my mind like strands of lights on a Christmas tree. Next, they begin to whisper words.

They murmur sotto voce and ignite those cursed memories. I want to say, “Shh, I can’t bear to see them, allow me to forget!”

But would I be capable of that? Have I ever sincerely asked to forget?

Deep down, I know I can’t. I need my memories to regulate myself, to keep that anxiety that has settled within me, like an unwanted guest, at bay. I need the precise dates, the scents I’ve inhaled, the words spoken in a time long gone. It’s the same need that drives me to straighten a painting on a wall, count steps on a staircase, dress and undress in a specific order, arrange books by height, and return everything precisely to its origin.

In doing so, I can breathe.

I catalogue my memories, like organising books in a library, grouping them systematically with titles and colours. There they stand, precise, methodical, soothing:

Important – orange;

Painful – midnight blue;

Unpleasant – dark brown;

Happy – yellow;

Anxious – crimson red;

Peaceful – sage green.

Once catalogued, they settle into place, highlighted as needed, revisited more or less frequently.

How much weight do our memories carry? What do they redeem to exist within us? Is remembering a blessing or a curse?

Teach me, then, to forget. Help me erase fragments of life, to select unwanted memories and remove them from the catalogue.

Tell me how to do it; you know the way. You’ve done it before.

But first, wait. Allow me one last thing.

Let me take you by the hand and guide you through the rooms of those very memories that you’ve erased with determination. We share many of them – they persist within me and once existed within you. Allow me to lead you to the place where it all began.

There, to the midnight blue area of my mind.

Would you come?