These days, he finds that all he does is write letters.
He drafts up a list of reasons why he writes:
He writes to those who have been forgiven, because most of them don’t even know what they’ve done wrong in the first place. They are like undisciplined children, hurting others and themselves without feeling any pain.
He writes to the elderly, who see the world in a different perspective because they have experienced history themselves – they become history; a lifelong test that they haven’t completed, but seem to be passing with flying colours.
He writes to conquerors and those who’ve tasted victory; winnings they can name and keep beneath their humility.
He writes to those who are strong, who know who they are and where they’re from, and where ‘home’ is so they always return to the place where they belong.
When he writes, he tries not to be jealous of all the growth and pure potential he sees. He realises that the truth he knows has been bought by someone else, so what can he do but give it away? There will definitely be a portion left for him, so even though it feels like he’s writing his soul away, it doesn’t matter. The night is long, and the candle hasn’t finished burning yet. He scribbles away, and waits for the world to end.