To you, my dear friend
Woiler, February 28, 2023
Dearest,
As you know, I am struggling to escape from this breakdown that shot me down in the middle of my flight, in the middle of my growth and happiness. Nothing could stop my journey, except the war.
Just one year ago I sank into stupefaction. It was as if my body was thrown back a century, in the dullness of industrial cities, of contemptuous generals, of women smothered in the corsets of principles of vociferous males.
I thought we'd have something else to do, that there was more urgent business than cannons. I was crushed, thrown into quicksand where, with each attempt to get out, I sank further until my depression became existential, until I despaired.
Today I feel better, like the day after a near-fatal accident: at least I'm not dead and I'm grateful for that. I am still bruised, still fragile and anxious, but like the end of winter, I feel the energy running through my veins again.
Tell me how you are, where you are, where you want to live.
With love,