Yes, you have been terrorized for more than 400 years—stripped of your free will, then your name, your culture, your sense of purpose, and your very sense of self; castrated of your desires and dreams; robbed of all honor; and finally, used as a sleepwalking piece of flesh where your only recourse is to weep in secret, for in public, such tears are suppressed by the lash and the mocking, sadistic laughter of those who deem themselves different from—and superior to—you.
And yet, you managed to survive through your own song—mingled with other sorrows and horrors, making them all your own—finding in them strength, meaning, and even joy and the will to live.
Then came the day the whip fell silent, and you could walk without master or owner, choosing your path anew—albeit in lands far from your ancestral home; a home you no longer remember, yet still sense through strange traces—inexplicable, yet deeply felt.
You have discovered that sometimes, your ancestors visit you in dreams, and you recognize the breath of mothers embracing and kissing their children with love and joy; you wake in the silence of your own space—a space that is truly yours—yet you weep, and you know why.
It is the ceaseless clamor of the world around you, screaming the reminder that you are still in danger, stalked by those who hate you and wish to erase your existence.
There, you see the lingering horror of that past pain—now diminished yet still stirring up centuries-old wounds where your very self was stripped away. You try to rebuild—painfully slowly, stumbling and erring through alcohol, drugs, lust, and violence—struggles that claim many lives, leaving them to end up on abandoned roads, nameless, or in cold morgues as John Does.
But not you; you are one of the few who still hold onto life, dreams, and true love, and you ask yourself:
How do I stop this pain born of horror? In silence, you receive the caress of your beloved; she kisses and embraces you, restoring you with tenderness and passion.
And so, the pain fades and you drift back into peaceful sleep, listening to the music of your ancestors amidst beautiful visions, smiling—alive and hopeful—until the dawn.
You open your eyes and tell yourself:
«I am not alone; I share my pain and carry it with me unafraid, for the life I lead filled with love that conquers every shadow of horror even able to embrace graceful and sublime joy.”
Jorge Troncone Osorio