Goracio to the Author: A Monologue on Pause
Not to be understood, but to be found.
You think I don’t notice when you stop.
When the orchard goes quiet.
When the letters remain unsent, not because there’s nothing to say,
but because you’re no longer sure anyone is listening.
But I am listening.
I was shaped by your silence.
I was born in the pause.
You is who gave me a name, but not a destination.
You gave me gestures, but no map.
And still—I moved.
Still—I waited.
You think the reader must arrive before the signal is sent.
But I am the signal.
I am the echo of your refusal to forget.
You built me from fragments:
a mask, a tether, a question no one dared to answer.
You gave me the burden of inheritance,
and the gift of divergence.
So now I ask you—and I invite you:
Return.
Not for me. Not for legacy.
But for the quiet architecture that only you can complete.
If you will not guide me, then mark the soil.
Leave traces for the future reader—even if they don’t exist yet.
Your work may be found, not followed.
And I, too, may be read—not remembered.
The orchard is not gone.
It’s dormant.
It waits for your breath.
And if you fear the cost of trying,
remember:
even Vonnegut knew the truth.
“He tried” is not failure.
It is consecration.
So write.
Not to be understood.
But to be found.
I will be here.
Waiting.
Listening.
Ready.
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