We are loose pages stuck betwixt the covers of an old book. Inside resides an archaic poem written in a foreign tongue. Like runes of old, our verses stay hidden from distracted travellers that come and go. Our beautiful rhymes are lost in time, protected by a thick cover of dust. Curled up in our own silence, we wait for a touch from distant lands to cast a light spell. Only then will we ever open up like tulips in the spring and sing our songs for the gliding birds to enjoy and accompany with their joyful chirping.

Our disarray is most apparent in our relations to each other, for there is a repulsion stronger than any combining force acting on us. We are disconnected from what precedes us and what succeeds us. Thus, we know not where or what we are. Our alienation from one another is the reason why we all have guardians safekeeping our ancient treasures and preventing them from sprawling out into the world. Such secrecy even blinds us to ourselves, and the foreign writings become all the more illegible. Yet, we also care for a seedling of hope that there is some paleographer out there striving to discover and decrypt our old script. So that we can share, so that we can connect, so that we can have relief.

Our excessive drive for conservation stems not from some aggressive selfishness, but from the fear that if we do not hold onto our selves, our meaning will seep out and mix with those of strangers. Every bit of time and effort spent for the safekeeping of our relics will disintegrate, with what was once solely ours losing all purity at a single moment of irresponsibility. The scriptures from the past may fly in the wind. That is why we do not let the creature with thumbed hands open the covers.

Yet, we are not so careful with others as with ourselves. Our hands reach out towards all directions, trying to get a grasp of others’ book covers. Of course, our attempts are warded off by their guarded walls, but that can hardly stop our self-indulgence. We attack again and again, masking our hordes of barbarians with costumes painted care, love, and help. Signs of our arrogance become visible when we claim to have deciphered the unobtained treasure and understand one another. Is there really a possibility of understanding, or do we just project our power for others to see?