I am aware that these are just messages floating in the silence, stored somewhere in the planet as binary numbers. I am writing to myself, mainly, from my remote hiding place.
I have travelled through ages, without really being part of them. All alone with my problem. As a patient with a rare disease that doesn’t even have a proper description, I do not belong to humankind.
But humans have paradoxical behaviours, they care more about a man who lived five thousand years ago in the north of Italy, trapped in the ice of our highest mountains, than of clochards that live right now in pain and loneliness in their community. So it might be that generations from now, someone will find these notes, an archaeologist who will try to build my story, from fragments of what I left behind: drawings and calculations. Mathematics is a universal language, after all, and to some extent, even art is universal; not always but often, good art is forever.
If I fail my mission, history will never record my existence. But it might be that at some point in the future someone will find these notes frozen in the ice of a planet long forgotten by humans themselves, as we now have forgotten Africa, the place we all come from.