Etel Adnan

Io cannot die. Prometheus cannot rest. The oceans are helpless. As for us, we can neither live, nor disappear. The stars, at night, emit sparks with the rhythm of our breath. My window is blessed. It opens in daylight on the fields of Greece, that’s what I’m trying to believe.

To sit on a beach and rest our aged bones, that’s already a privilege. And to stop the car by a curve and throw an eye on a blazing horizon, that’s a victory, but not to sleep at night because of some memories’ sheer weight means what?

I was trying, very regularly, to convince myself that I was alive, and that was still another game, and the world fell apart.