0. Prolog

You may think I'm the creator of the story that you will soon read

– but what kinf of creator am I, unaware yet of how this story ends?

What kind of creator am I, having barely a clue about the order of the chapters?

I listen with my heart a story beyond time...

how could I translate it in a linear story?

How could I do that and still keep its charm and meaning?

I've been listening for lifetimes.

From time to time, words find their way onto paper and

I forget them on dusty shelves, in trunks untouched by centuries and I wipe away traces of stories with the forgetfulness of an innocent child who

opens the eyes to the beauty of the world

and believes it's merely the first time he sees.

Other times I find my memories told by foreign words,

which seem entirely and impossibly mine.

I listen and write what stars whispers,

I describe thoughts I left hidden in nature,

I drip stories in ink out of the deluge flooding my eyelids when I close them,

yet if I'm not the creator, why bother to sit and write?

Because it all makes sense when it reaches you.

Maybe writing is important for you, not for me.

Maybe whoever YOU are, you read the story anew,

you understand the characters differently and think of yourself

as a character of the story I'm telling you.

If it is so, is it my story any longer?

If it is so, who is the Creator? And who are you?

A.