Once upon a time, there was a man whose childhood was lost in the sanctity of a family that lived only for the opinions of others. Joy was rare in his life, although he found happiness in the smallest of things. His childhood was stolen by a revolution that altered the lives of millions for many years—a self-serving revolution that offered nothing but bullets, whips, and hardship to those who fought for it. The best days of his youth, which should have been the prime of his life, were spent in the long hallways of schools that did not value the time they consumed.
He came to know youth through war. While others were youthful and naive, he faced a destiny where the first mistake could be the last; mines were no joke. A man who loved life was ill-suited for war because he neither knew how to kill nor wanted to. He was not one to fear; he was a man of war, planting or defusing mines every night between two armed forces without carrying a weapon to defend himself. His pride was never having fired a single shot in a war, even though he ventured further than many soldiers, for mines marked the boundary between armies.
His youth could not withstand the cold pressures of life. His solitude found company in the shoulders of a close friend who understood the meaning of shared life. Without a home in his own country, he became a migrant. He was left without a homeland. He, who had risked his life nightly for his country, was left without one. Exile is a pain that breaks a person. When you have no acquaintances in your motherland, exile and nearness bear little difference.
Born into religion, he sought to understand his faith to reach his God but found himself instead, realizing he had sought from others what he possessed all along—a God closer than his jugular vein, found nowhere but within himself.
What you are about to read is the uprising of the thoughts of a man who, in his not-so-long life, experienced every calamity that humanity can bring upon itself. He was pain itself, seeking a cure.
Life is but a brief imprisonment in the jail we call the body. What drives us towards in is eternal. An essence that, if it returns to itself, becomes divine—a divinity capable of creating another world, one of infinite parallel worlds. This story is my parallel world. What you are about to read is not the past but the future.
Dedicated to my mother, who embodies the true meaning of humanity. Dedicated to my loyal companion through the days of worry, my wife, who knows the essence of love. Dedicated to you, who, tired of lies, are seeking your true self. Join me, my friend.