Kertész

[NacreCicatrix]

Turul, turul, fly away home.
Your nest is on fire and your children shall burn...

[NacreCicatrix]

Elisabeta told me that it can be cathartic to put one's thoughts to parchment, but I fear that I do not know what to write here.
Or perhaps I am afraid to write at all.
Though this piece may not be intended for an audience, I do not like the thought of someone stumbling upon it.
It is not that I carry any dangerous or knotty secrets with me, but there are some things that I should not like anyone to know.
I do not wear all that I am as a garish coat for everyone to behold. I am the sort of man who swallows his burdens.
Grief festers in the pit of my belly, but I do not retch it forth in avenging screams.
Nor do I boast of my triumphs.
To the unassuming eye, I am nothing if not plain. Sullen, perhaps. Or quick-to-anger.
This leads to a maelstrom of assumptions, which become the accepted truth of someone else's narrative.
That is the one that prevails. Not the account of those who know me best. Or even my own.

Perhaps I should simply consider this a quiet place to arrange my thoughts. Let us give this a twist.
A mundane account of my mundane day.

Leghorns were fourteen wolf-fang at market. Purchased two for the stew pot.
Weather is pleasant. Took some time to prune the laurels and Fortune's Spindle in the burial yard. The patrols paid me little mind today.
The sweetmeats for the cabinet are slated to arrive tomorrow. I would like to transcribe my mother's recipes; presently, they exist only in her memory.

Elisabeta. If you are reading this, you had best not be.

Elás.