,,Iţi scriu ca să te întreb dacă tu, dragă Udo, care
ai plecat şi nu te-ai mai întors niciodată, ai plecat definitiv, cum se spunea
înainte, ai ajuns acasă?”(Adela Greceanu, ,,Papusa")
I
came across these lines several days ago. Finding Home, Ithaca, Neverland … Will
I ever be Home? I think I have never been so far from Home as I am now. In a
desperate search of a meaning, of a shelter, of some(thing/one) to believe in …
I cannot find my place here. I cannot find myself in the job that I now dislike,
I cannot find the language in which I can express myself, always searching,
feeling, measuring its/their limits … I cannot find my religion and I don’t
know if I have lost it somewhere in this road or it has never been there. I have
kept on trying to offer shelter, protection, safety, but I … . I cannot find
the proper book, the perfect words. I cannot find myself, in all my wanderings,
and sins, and memories. And like a small child, I tremendously miss the belief in my own Ithaca.
