walked on the faces of many others. My face and the face of my generation,
altogether, have this stigma, so do the faces of past generations. 'Iron Heel'* has
weighed on the shoulders of History, and it has made the pages of its book black and
scarlet, here and there. It does not want the human to be Human, and that is why it
takes the individual and people to the seas and oceans, and brings them back with
dried, cracked lips. It views the world through the small aperture of money. From this
view, money is everything: a beginning and also the final destination of the journey
which is called life. Thus, it is not surprising if we still breathe, because we are still
valuable, or frankly, able to produce money. But we, you and I, have given no
guarantee to be the tamed sheep of the herd till the last day in the slaughterhouse.
Nor have we given any guarantee to fit the 'acceptable norms,' to stay in the depth of
darkness, and to be self-estranged. We, you and I, carry our "sorrowful conscious-
ness"** like a cross on our backs, climbing step-by-step to the boundaries of Truth.
Truth, the fertile land in which light grows, now seems like a dim light in a halo of
ambiguity, like a far lamp hidden in the fog as though it were a dream disappearing in
the current nightmare in our bodies and spirits. Truth is a dream unlike the sun since
you cannot point it out and say: "Here you go, this is it," neither can you forget all
about it and say: "It is a useless whim." It is a dream calling: "Come! Come!"
Meanwhile, what leads us, you and me, on our way is the same cross on our backs,
yours and mine. We should either close our eyes, ignore Truth, and forget all about
what we see and know, or bear the sorrow, keep our eyes widely open, and surpass
the border of sorrowful consciousness. None of us can succeed alone. Give me
your hands, take mine. Though the heel is iron, once upon a time, a man called
Achilles had a heel.
