For who listens to us, anywhere in the world? A friend or teacher, brother or father or mother, sister or neighbour, son or ruler or servant? Does he listen, our advocate, or do our men and women
listen, those who are dearest to us?

Do the stars listen when we turn away from humanity in despair, or the mighty winds, or the seas or the mountains? To whom can anyone say: Here I am! Behold my nakedness, my wounds, my secret sorrow,
my despair, my betrayal, my pain, my tongue unable to express my concerns, my fear, my abandonment.

Hear me, for a day — an hour! — a moment!

Lest I breathe my last breath in my terrible desolation, my lonely silence! O God, is there no one who hears me?

Is there no one who hears me? You ask. Oh yes, there is someone who hears, who will always hear.
Hurry to him, my friend! He is waiting for you on the hill.

For you alone.

Seneca
Art: Manka Kasha