I have no right to call myself one who knows.
I was one who seeks, and I still am,
but I no longer seek in the stars or in books;
I’m beginning to hear the teachings of
my blood pulsing within me.
My story isn’t pleasant,
it’s not sweet and harmonious
like the invented stories;
it tastes of folly and bewilderment,
of madness and dream,
like the life of all people who
no longer want to lie to themselves.