Diary. May, 1989
...There were days, in my long existence, when the call of Rome broke through the noise, glass, steel and smoke of London, filling my soul with unbearable, crushing pain every orphan feels - the pain of having no home, no anchor and no memory but the memory of the place he was found at.
And whenever I closed my eyes, the memories of San Lorenzo fuori le mura came rushing to my mind, flooding me with the scent of cool stone, herbs growing in abundance in the shaded garden, beeswax bleeding through the bitterness of ink and heaviness of coarse wool. Light dancing on Cosmatesque floors, the smoke of incense weaving intricate patterns in the air, chants threading into each and every minor and major occupation, and kind understanding of those whose lives were led in perpetual servitude, following the calling, the higher reason, the faith that was stronger than anything in the world.
I was at my most vulnerable at such moments, and I am content noone saw me drowning in my memories only to emerge, tears flowing down my cheeks, leaving the curious, stinging traces, as if the skin was sun or fire- kissed.
Was it the blessing of my stoic patron, or the last vestige of his undying, unyielding love resting in my heart?.. That I do not know. But I am grateful for these signs of life still nesting in my ribcage...to this day.
~Lawrence Graves
