We are all the echo of
the past. The echo of ideas, of secret tremours, and of black cats crossing streets.
Most of us remain an echo and our journey becomes a simple passage.
The echo of the future
somehow resonates in a few of us. The unhappened find us and our passage becomes
a personal gift, not the harbor of passed age. It becomes a destination we know
we cannot reach.
Until, on an August
morning, we listen to the rain drops run down the window panels, and we find
our voice. We are not an echo anymore. We become simple and grateful.
And that personal gift,
we share it with someone. With others. And we take only from ourselves. And we
give only from ourselves.
February 9, 2024
© Vahé A. Kazandjian,
2024
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