Actually, you know what, that is quite selfish to say. I mean, imagine someone writing a book of their life. The stories they've heard, the places they've seen, the people they've met, all in one text. Hundreds of lines, thousands even, that the author himself would not have a chance to remember all. But they all form and create the author.
He gives you the book, with some grammatical errors, still in the stage of development. You look it through, not amused, not dragged inside the adventures. A week flies by, as it does when you read or when you live, and the author comes to you, asking whether or not the book will be published.
“It's pretty satisfying,” that is what you say. The author's head falls down, not rapidly enough to notice, but low enough to notice.
Pretty satisfying. The words resonate in the author's head, making him wonder: What have I done wrong? Is my life really as boring as calling it “pretty satisfying?”
Perhaps he should have told you it was a book about himself. But would it make a change? Would you care? It's just a book anyway. A simple set of pages meant to entertain. Meant to be bought and made money of.
I can't do that to whatever I thank for creating me. I just couldn't kick anyone with that. The lifetime work of art of someone crushed in seconds.
I like to think that my parents are “responsible” for my existence. It makes me really unable to complain about my life, because whenever I think of how lousy it might be, I imagine my mother's face. Try it yourself:
“Mom, why did you give birth to someone as useless as me? What did you give me most of your finances for, when you knew I'd never learn and use them effectively? What is the reason of your forgiveness for my mistakes I never even tried to remedy?”
Yes, painful to you, not half as much as it would hit your mom, though.
Death, resentment, dodging, fighting, unrighteousness; we all have seen that. How unfortunate that those are what make up most of our memories.
No, definitely not because those emotions are the ones we see the most. Humans just tend to remember the dreadful more than the beautiful.
What I like to remember are the random happy moments. And then there are the happy moments you expect or plan to have. Be happy. That's the whole theory. The theory of a good story. Of my story.
I don't need it to be interesting to you. I don't need it to be entertaining or funny. I like that it is real, and that it is mine. It's the only that matters. What I feel and how I live with it.
“Mom, dad, thank you for my life,” that is what I should say. “Thank you for the problems I have, for they make me realize how great it is to feel good. I am grateful for your patience and for your understanding, for you have already been somewhere I have, and you understand that somewhere I have been, you never will be. I don't feel the need to apologize, but I feel the need to promise you I will stay careful, for you existed to make me exist, and I don't want that creation to come to waste. Please, my dear parents, accept this revelation, for one day I shall leave to create something wonderful too.”
Mountains seem higher when you climb them from lower depths.
Rivers flow constantly, and the water in them changes, no matter how similar it looks after endless turns of centuries.
Forests have experienced more catastrophes than anyone can remember. You have the power to plant new trees. And only you choose which trees you like.
Do not try and make your life be worth writing about. Make it so that you alone would like to read it again.
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thrwtchr
21. 9.sept. 2014 21:52
#psychohygiena
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