Eincyg, on the shores of the lake of Cyg, June 2016
My life has taken several unexpected sharp turns in the last three years.
And yet, these upheavals are almost insignificant compared to what is awaiting me.
When I’ll be done with my tale, time will be to step in a place from which it is said no one has ever come back.
Now, I believe that a little introduction would be appropriate.
My name’s Enzo Bardi and I am only twenty-three-year-old. Not that names and ages matter a lot to me. But we humans need to put words on things, and Enzo will be more practical and personal than anonymous storyteller.
I already imagine the startled look on your face.
So young, and deeming himself experienced enough to write a biography?
So young, and walking eagerly toward death?
Oh, it’s not what you think. It’s not death that is awaiting me at the end of my tale. Or at least, I don’t believe so.
But, of course, I could be wrong.
As you surely have noticed already, my writing is clumsy. English is not my native tongue. Yet, I believe to be the guardian of an unusual yarn that ought to be told in a universal language.
Besides, to say the entire truth, I’m not doing it for altruistic purposes solely. Before taking my first trembling steps on the old arched bridge leading toward the isle of Cyg, I’d like to look hard into my life once again, one last time, and my hope is that writing this manuscript will force me to do so in a sweeping manner.
I’m also writing with the fool wish that someday, somehow, this story may fall in the hands of the soul I love. If you ever read this, know that my heart and my mind are always with you and that I am waiting for you.
Now that you know the motives that are driving my hand in such a frantic way, embroidering letter upon letter, forming words and sentences, barely conscious of what I am writing, time has come to start with my tale.
I will start from the beginning, without censorship, retracing each and every step I’ve taken, remembering the different trails I’ve meandered through, crossing the land of joy, of despair and of madness. To structure my memories and articulate them around the frame of time like a fine cobweb, the story is divided in chapters…
I just realize I ought not to have explained that, but in my defense I’m writing this manuscript in the good old-fashioned way, with paper and black indelible ink (I’ve sold my laptop several month ago to pay for the expenses of the journey from Lausanne – I supposed it wouldn’t have been of any use once in Cyg), and I won’t have enough room in my notebook if I start crossing out sentences every time I’m dissatisfied with them!
You’re still in time to close this book and prevent your eyes from further reading and pain.
If you choose to continue, I beg you to consider my inexperience and clumsiness with benevolence. Discard all the meaningless and focus on the meaningful core.
And let me warn you that the world may never feel the same place again.