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There it was, behind him, the never-ending shadow. As he looked behind him, it seemed to stretch back into the deep distance. His past was buried in the desert, the one he saw in his dreams since he was a child. He felt as though he was in the past he never knew he had. As he remembered the dream, he believed what he had always believed: that his past was beckoning him with the slow rhythmic tides he thought of as hope. He remembered that the sky had gradually darkened, absorbing the grey and crimson hues of eventide. He felt a shift in the wind. It permeated the desert, growing fiercer and unrelenting with each passing moment. It swept the horizon uniformly, leaving nothing out of its reach. Each layer of sand covered another, creating a number of layers that concealed what was beneath. The windswept desert sands covered everything. It was as if the desert of a moment ago had ceased to exist, and a new one had taken its place. But, then again, he knew that this is what the desert is: shifting tides that occur in rapid succession. In his mind, he saw the desert spread out before him, but then the image dissipated and vanished. He opened his eyes and focused on writing his journal:

Today, the revisionists will try to rewrite history again. They have laid a new burden upon me. I must help them rewrite history like I always do. There is no other choice for me. Even though they subvert the factual truths of normative history, history itself can never be revised. Events follow each other in succession, creating a series of truths. He stopped writing for a moment. He shut his eyes, but then reopened them. He looked at the screen and let his fingers play on the keyboard. I have been having the same dream again. It comes upon me in my deepest sleep, as if trying to extract some hidden part of me. His eyes absorbed the stream of words he had just written. He continued. I do not know what it means, but I think it is somehow related to my past. He stopped writing, but then continued. The revisionists are deluded. They try to rewrite history in the name of peace, but peace remains elusive in every corner of the world. I am also a revisionist, but not of my own accord. He paused, but then resumed. I am first and foremost a universal refugee. I have no history. It was taken from me. The revisionists revised my history and gave me a new one. I will never know who my ancestors were. They revise history for the sake of global peace, but peace, like me, is a universal refugee. It wanders through history, searching for a place to belong. He stared at the page and then looked away. After a few seconds, he pressed a button to delete the journal. He stared at the blank page that was before him.
He began to write a new journal. This time, everything he wrote contradicted what he wrote in his previous journal. He knew that the revisionists looked at what he wrote. Night and day, they observed his every move. He wrote about the mission that would help the revisionists. He shut his eyes again. He knew that even though the revisionists watched his every move, they could never penetrate the depths of his soul. They could never know what he truly wanted: a sense of belonging. What he desired most was to reconstitute the fragments of a forgotten history. If revising the history of the revisionists is what I need to find out about my history, then so be it. I have found my true calling amongst the echoes of the past. It is time to revise the revisionists.

Learn more about this author, Costas Komborozos.
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