I among them. They around me

The letter when you’re not at the right place

A letter from the book “Letters in Soliloquy Where It’s You & Me’, coming up soon

On the surface, he seemed like an ordinary man. He spoke like an ordinary man, he represented himself as such, he was acting the prude, when it was expected of him, he played the game when he was expected to retaliate, and he had invented this iron, pleasing way to be present but not participate, while in him was surging, burning and creating new fires… an idea.

The idea was growing, it grew up, became larger than him, larger than his life, larger than the pleasant ‘sir’ he had become, and in a single moment, it simply jumped, it dismantled the whole arrangement of a man that he had created for himself, and it made it naked, barefoot, all made of words and truth, ready to storm this world, as if he had stepped on it today, and he hadn’t tasted even a bit of his falseness.

He remembered of that thing they say… about the two important days of life: the one you are born and the one you know why… and he laughed at his entire existence until this moment.

To them, I really seemed like an insane person. My determination for life used to scare them to “the brain of their bones”* – not by itself, but the anguish, whether one they could blame themselves that they have not manifested it. They were harrowed by that – how could I and whether I do have the right to allow it to myself. How could I cross the norms of the universal grips of fixed beliefs? Could it be that they also needed a little determination? How can you find determination among dogmatists!

They, in general, are passive to each other. That day, when you realize whether you have had the bravery to live or not, is the only Doomsday, self-nailed by the choice of inert living. Intuitively but vaguely they sensed that the lists of regrets and desires were filling up, and the achievements were not any help in emptying them out.

Among these people, I really was insane, and as such, “accepted” as so different, e.g. to put it straight, I was Unaccepted. I was showing understanding for them. I was showing an understanding of cruelty.

“An insane person, really”, I agreed with them. I did not sympathize because my sympathy wouldn’t do anything, and there was nothing to sympathize with. If I did sympathize, then I would feel sympathy for their feelings of anger, insult, judgment, reprehensibility, and that is regret and like all regrets – unnecessary.

Other warm feelings for sympathizing were like a flower that sprung out among the dessert; feelings I celebrated like summer sun on a winter day, I was organizing tiny soulful feasts around them and I was melting in blessedness.

Lord, what progress we have achieved! Lord, even cheerfulness came here!

Without the callout to God, this is how it did sound inside of me. The only thing left for me was not to react, to understand and understand. The looks were giving away judgment, contradiction, struggle, but in an incorrect way. I was a newly chosen enemy – it’s much easier to aim at just one man, rather than at your many contradictions, because if you find out that you yourself are the contradiction, and the struggle, and the conflict… who would be left to battle with?

I decided that if I pass this, there will be no more cases like this. Instead of them going away, however, I understand that this is so common, that the only thing left is to pass it by more easily, to stop at more rarely, to understand much more. And ever since I learned to look at things so simply, they stop me on my way and in one eyesight I already know, and there is no need for explanations.

How glad I am to see such eyes! We become like two flowers in the desert, flowers that have grown feet, running in this world, while we were told that something lost “cannot catch feet”, and I surely knew that not only have we grown feet but also on our shoulder blades, I felt wings piercing through, curving upwards.

©Copyright applies. The literary content published on svetlina.org as poetry, prose, poetic soliloquies, short stories and talks are written by Svetlina Trifonova. 

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Svetlina

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