I hate it when life leaks between your fingers. The stream of life pushes everything you know away from you, the stream never stops, but it is unfair that you were the one to stop. Time works in strange ways, your time is frozen, mine is interrupted, but never parallel nor meet, and I hate that too.
You always took care of me, as an infant I was in your custody as our parents were almost never home. You were a child too, but this image of you hanging me on your waist and heading to our friend’s house in the neighborhood is persisting in my memory. Your first experiences in cooking started by making me taste your creations, I was a child with a huge appetite, I ate everything and this might encouraged you to carry on with your culinary efforts regardless the results.
You always tried to find yourself. In the past years you thought you did, but it led you to a damp cruel place. I really hoped that you do find you, I wanted you to find peace within, I prayed that you might collect your remains and create something exquisite, but in that country we were doomed to not reach our ends, like mice we ran inside the wheel for eternity. The salvation for me was to leave elsewhere, you were still shaken and distracted, and you somehow felt that in that unpredicted place the odds might stand beside you, in that place the odds are full of hate and grudge, they hate breathing and change.
We all were perplexed and heartbroken when you refused to be prepared for the worse. The worse happened and you are not alone in it, we are all in it, still perplexed and heartbroken. One thing we know for sure, you are the brave one.
I miss you dearly, and I am still waiting for the day when you take off your cloths, free your hair tangled in the tree boughs in the middle of the roaring river of your life, then let the current carries you naked to a new pond, a calm and a clear one.