"Writing is a form of inner freedom: the freedom to name, to understand, and sometimes to survive."
Il courait jadis dans les couloirs dorés des saisons claires,
Le cœur rempli de soleils immenses et de matins incendiés,
Parmi les herbes hautes baignées d'une innocence légère,
Comme si rien au monde ne pouvait encore se briser.
Breathe…
As if every breath could cleanse your soul of all the falsehood, heaviness, and emptiness this world has placed upon it.
They crawl toward power with varnished smiles and hands already stained, predators in suits feeding on cracks and fears, shamelessly devouring what they swear to protect; their speeches are sweet poisons, their promises premeditated betrayals, and every word they utter reeks of disguised self-interest. They serve nothing and no one but their own...
