As if once upon a time, a disaster befell somewhere. And parents were throwing their children around lest the fire should devour them.
Children were scattered and lost.
Or as if back in the day, someone decided to emigrate: he felt scared or bored. He packed his valise and went to Earth, and it was like America for us. The New World. The price of coming-of-age.
He, our ancestor, disembarked on Earth, unpacked his things, separated light from dark.
But then something went wrong. And humans forgot who they were and where did they come from.
They did forget, but a feeling deep in the heart cannot be fooled.
And I keep telling myself until hell freezes over that this is my home and I have grown out of these depths. But blood or spirit, or a sort of superconscious, not subject to common sentience, sings songs to me. The songs of my, or rather our, cradleland.
Sometimes I dream of having returned. As if I come home, pass under the shadow of vines to where a table is laid. Where they are waiting only for me.
I do not know my cradleland. I would not recognize my parents.
I was born ineffably later than they begat me.
But I feel it, this strange planet. The hunger of heart will abate.
The switch of incessant anxiety will conk out. The skeleton will grow soft. The shoulders will droop.
The prodigal son will come back to where he is forgiven long ago.
I will pass once again under the vine, and something inside will definitely say: “I am at home”.
I will begin to understand what they are about: these songs, which the stars sing to me in the night sky.
And then all the names I used to remember will lose their meaning for me. I will forget who the humans are.
And maybe some of you will still recall me. But I will forget you forever.