It’s dark, intensely dark. Sometimes I can see a spark here and there and no more. The darkness always surrounds me, and the maze feels eternal and tangled. I can’t find the exit and all my friends are already outside. They call me and, I hear them laugh and rejoice in the sun.
I do not understand: I took some little known shortcuts when we were all here. Some even went deeper and got into the most dangerous part of the maze: I remember perceiving their screams and despair. They did not know what to do, until the parents and some wise counselors arrived and helped them find a more natural way to get out again.
In my case, I received help, but I could never get the most out of it. When I saw the exit, I was in front of the sun, without any bridge to cross the abyss.
I could presage freedom in the distance: the leafy trees, the rivers sliding between the soft hills. I saw many people enjoying that freedom. And I could only see them at that moment, in the distance. Still tucked into the maze’s confines, I had found that window, thinking that it was the exit. And I could only see the beautiful outside. Now I wish with more force to be able to leave! That was several years ago already.
I can’t find the way out. I’m already alone, the voices of yesteryear faded. And the strength is running out! Calls to join people who love me are increasingly distant. Every time the labyrinth becomes darker and myself weaker. I am wearing thorn clothes, and I miss human contact. In the beginning, we met a lot and helped each other, not now. Since they could find the way out, some waited for me as long as they could. But the freedom before them seemed like a golden juice from a large cup after being thirsty for many years. It is not easy to resist.
I stayed behind. I don’t blame my friends for moving on; it is part of the dynamic. I follow back, touching the damp and moldy walls. They cannot be scaled. I scrape off some moss out of them and smell it strongly. I feel the smell of the fertile earth: it is a small glimpse of it. The scent is distant, but real. I remember well: since the summer storms, that smell of moist earth got into the mix of walls and rough corners. I enjoy it like I enjoy the scent of a delicious dish; it doesn’t smell like that, but I can perceive that scent with my emotion. I imagine beautiful and unique things: I see far away unexplored places — the imagination flies. The pain of not being able to be there invades me and leaves me prostrate on the floor, invalid, with clenched fists and salty tears, full of rage.
I think it would have filled a single ocean with my tears. At least someone would have crossed it to get somewhere. It would have served some purpose. Here I feel useless. I see my tears fall on the wet floor, and it receives them with indifference. It already has thousands of droplets in its black entrails. It lacks light to be able to give life. There are only small islands of moss displayed in that ocean of black land. The little insects walk along the black waves: they look like small dancing boats, like triremes. They are gathering and fighting among themselves. They have their lives in this eternal gloom, not me! I am still lost. Where is the exit? Why don’t I see it?