The gloaming.

Now would probably be the moment for me to open up and write in the walls all the silent words that I've let out quietly in the last months. Those words, however, will remain secret, hidden away where I left them. What was not spoken before must not be ever spoken. Not anymore. Not everything is said and done, and perhaps more battles could or should follow; but the truth is, I am tired of the struggle, of the warfare. I can fight. I've learned how to years ago: I've learned how to win and how to lose, how to accept both the victory and the defeat. Defeat requires a particular grace, one that took me a while to master, one that still leaves a little bitterness behind. Just like now. You said that I had won, that I had it my way. It's so wrong. I never had things my way, not with anyone. The choice I have ever faced in my life was of another nature: it was the lesser evil, it was the sword or the wall. In the end, I did not end the wars I've fought by guile, or strenght of arms: in the end, it has always been sheer survival instinct. When everything else is shattered - pride, self-respect, ego, whatever - the survival instinct kicked in to keep everything in one place. Victories? I wish I knew what victory truly means.