Me:

I’m afraid to speak. Speaking means being misunderstood, being judged, being hurt. I’d rather be invisible—silent, but safer—than watch my own honor be attacked.

Santa Croce:

You sound like Dante when he first exiled from the city. He, too, thought silence was safer than return.

Me:

So, what happened to him later?

Santa Croce:

He never came back. But his exile built an empire of language——a home no city could ever destroy.

Me:

But…what if my words never find home?

Santa Croce:

You already have your home. It may be a resting place, like Michelangelo’s. It may be a late respect, like Gallieo’s. It may be a long wandering, like Dante’s exile. But it is yours—no matter where, or how, the world chooses to place you.

Me:

You mean misunderstanding isn’t the end?

Santa Croce:

No—it’s the beginning. You must let your words die once before they live beyond you.

Me:

Then how should I begin, if I’m still afraid to speak?

Santa Croce:

You already have.