From the Other Side

Somewhat aimlessly strolling, thinking one was going in one direction, gentle breezy waves of seductive haze found one's look firmly fixed on the site that could only be recreated through the evocation of the reminisced nostalgic images. From the other side of where one's powerful urge for nostalgic reminiscing started emerging. Everything starts with the second year in one’s life. When HerDamend was that old, one became aware of the sensation never felt before. Notes about it were found in one’s diary from some time ago. The following is an entry bearing witness to a kind of existence that saw its dawn in the eye of the second year in one’s life: [ ] Daer Countrymean, I was born in the land of the folks whom I saw as kinship and aliens, comrades and an indifferent crowd, benevolent and hostile, neighbors and passers by, guardians of the cradle in which I was sleeping and scatter-brained wanderers, benign jokers and miserable parasites feeding on the other’s weakness, generous givers and narrow-minded cripples, unconditioning providers and envious backbiters, protectingly warm advisers and unscrupulous upward-social-climbers, kings of laughter and emperors of solemnity, masters of the healing embrace and spiteful tormentors, torchbearers for the soul-saving wisdom and the experts in heart massacring, a fascinating source of uniqueness and blank back-stabbers, endlessly amusing and lame to the core, elated worshippers of life joy and embittered cynics of the lowest order, prototypically passionate and confusingly reserved. I left that land to inhabit another one. Where a different language is spoken. That I understood to be part of listening to my inherent urge for the preservation of meaning: it is reasonable to accept a possibility to be misunderstood in an alien linguistic environment. There I met a person called HerDamend, who, without knowing it, taught me how to read-write. I learned that in order to read-write, one needs to learn how to accept life’s inevitabilities. A major one being: One must accept a possibility that one’s favorite reader is never going to read what one writes. The other one being: One must accept a possibility that there will be periods in life when one will have noone to talk to, extending it to the time of the depravation of communicating with one’s best talker ever. And another: One must accept a possibility that one’s skin, no matter how strong the smell of a bird’s nest may be, will not be touched by the embrace between the valley and the claret sundown--a china-shop-accident-move of ye beloved nerd person. One more: One must accept a possibility that one’s passion is sentenced to a life of a self-perpetuating engine fueling nothing. And more: One must accept a possibility that there will be no one to listen to. All the vanity aside, one engages in excelling in all the skills of acceptance. Defying one’s own egotistic demons, one assumes that life is full of inexplicably unavoidable certainties. It is one’s right to live that enables mastering accepting them. Mastering accepting the rights. The right. To live. To not to accept to have the voice to listen V. Yours