The young traveler sat down beside me, eyes glimmering with a radiant glow. I knew he was new, a stranger to the land. There was no need of me to seek any confirmation as I trusted my instincts.

"So where are you headed to?"

"I would like to find out my dream, my full potential, until I reach a breaking point."

"Then please kindly accept my prayers that you would find the courage to go on when you have reached such a point."

"Maybe I just want to push myself to the limits, but not towards a breakdown."

I smiled callously. Could he have understood the intentions of such a smile? I couldn't be bothered to launch into an in depth explanation.

How would you truly know your limits if you have never gotten to the point of no return? Would you be like one of those, who would claim to have been courageous but cowardly when you have arrived at the point of breakdown, only to masquerade your cowardice with a trophy to show to the world that you have made it? Is it truly possible to know your full potential when you have not been broken before in your spirit? Surely, not all man would seek such a path, as it is the road least traveled. Such journey demanded intensely of the traveler, the wrinkles are carved onto his face, as if age himself had drawn out the face of a man. And there are the nights, which coldness and isolation would not go away, like how the heat of the burning sun would stay in the day.

His spirit was untainted and pure, I could pierce right into his soul. Then I prayed that he will remain in this state of innocence and not unlocking Pandora's box, thus unleashing all the evils of this world.

And so, instead, I gave him a poem.

Ithaca

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the cyclops,
the angry Poseidon - do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your heart does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at the Phonician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would never have set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

Constatine Cavafy (1863-1933),
translated by Rae Dalven

"I like the first verse"

I know you do, like all young travelers having stepped out of their world, excited about their first adventure.

It's not time yet. The voice spoke to me.

It has been telling me for a while now, to rest my spirit in this restless world. Where everyday, I would look out of the window, watching the busy streets, watching the hurried footsteps of people come and go. The leaves would fall, somehow signaling that it is time. Then the streets would become silent once more. Occasionally, whenever I had the chance to talk to the people in the world, they would tell me how happy they are, with so many things to do. And then I wondered, with a bewildering sense of suspicion if they are truly as happy as what they claim to be or they simply had no idea what they were really doing.

They looked more like ants to me. I would observe these ants, much to my amusement, how they would slog all day just to carry food to the nest. And the next day, it would just be a repetition of the same purpose again.

I excused myself out of the young traveler's presence. It was time for me to head back into Natsuo Kirino's world.

Hers was one that was perverse and oppressed. I could almost see that bitterness in her eyes. It sent a tingle down my spine as I continued to read her work.

Surely authors of fiction novels could write without drawing inspirations from their own lives. Yet after having read mountains full of books, and combed through an entire library of worthy reads, there was only one conclusion which I came upon. Writers who write and was capable enough to bring those words into life only if it was a part of their soul. The very essence of the human heart is imprinted between these binded pages called books. A man cannot write with conviction in the things that he simply did not believe in, as that would be writing a lie and those who read using their hearts will be able to pierce through that lie.

How strange, her world was one without love. The stark contrast stood out, when I had three other books placed next to each other, side by side, all written about love. A love for this world.

I shuddered at the thought of having to seek out love and happiness in such a twisted and warped manner, not knowing how love was truly like, where power was confused with love.