Literature, poetry, lots of books and just some stuff I write
There was a time, but it was already some time ago.
There was a time when we were younger, and we thought we were going to be real changemakers, and we could have an impact on the world we lived in. There was a time we collected speeches, articles, we subscribed to petitions, we supported everything was green, was fair, was in line with our values.
And yes, we had great values. And we were sure we were going to make something big out of them, something important, like writing a novel or writing poetry, because our words were our swords.
Or we were going to become war reporters, and write about the atrocities of conflicts. Whatever we were going to become, we were going to be proud of ourselves. We were going to be able to look at our image in the mirror every morning and feel good about ourselves.
There was a time, but this was really long time ago, when we fell in love. Falling in love was simple and complicated at the same time. We could fall in love with a movie and cry our eyes out. With a book. With a line. With a rhyme.
We could fall in love one summer evening in the Coliseum with an American guy who was going to leave in two days, spend the night thinking about him and spend the following day looking frantically for him in every hotel in the area he had mentioned he lived. But oh, the moment we found him. That kiss. How many buses we let go before letting him go.
We could fall in love with someone we had never seen, living far away from us, for his writing, because we wanted to be the woman he was so clearly – or had been – in love with. We could fall in love out of curiosity. We could write to him, holding our breath for his reply. He could surprise him by coming to visit us. But oh, the moment we first laid eyes on him, under the Cupid statue in Piccadilly. That moment. And the loss, afterwards. The sense of loss. The excruciating pain.
We could fall in love while stile at uni, with someone who was preparing his speech for his simulation of a UN Security Council meeting. He would repeat his speech by whispering it in our ear, while holding our hand, at the Christmas market.
And there was a time when we really fell in love, and that was really it. When we were in the same room, the two of us, a room crowded with people, full of noise and music, our eyes would lock, and everything else wouldn’t make sense anymore. No more noise, no more people. Ignore he or she who is talking to you. Just the two of us. Except that it was horribly wrong, and it couldn’t be, and it broke our heart. It really hurt, like hell. And that was it, folks. We lost a big piece of ourselves and we are still engaged in a neverending quest to find it. Do we still fall in love? Yes we do. Does it fell the same??? Does it???
There was a time we felt pretty. There was a time we felt free. There was a time in which even making the wrong things made sense.
There was a time we didn’t know our place in the world, and we were afraid, but this made sense too, because we were confident we were going to get there, and, once there, we would just know. Love at first sight.
And now? Now we are plain scared, because we are older but none the wiser, we still are helpless and clueless and we don’t belong anywhere. We just don’t belong.
I have used “we” because I really hope that, in all this ranting, some of you have felt the same…at least once..at least a little bit..that I am not the scary odd bugger out of a mad, but still comfortably homogeneous, crowd.
Have you ever felt the same? Have you?