Men have been telling tales to each other since the dawn of time; Mark Currie has even described human race as “homo fabulans – the tellers and interpreters of narrative”[1]. Narrative is seen as “a universal form of human expression”[2], it opens up a view of lived and imagined lives, as well as human nature.

But the fashion of the narrative depends on, well, current events.

Last few years have been nothing but hard and I don’t speak only about economic situation. The majority have started to turn over their minds on various subjects. I even found a study [3], where it is claimed that women, in general, consider themselves to be more depressed than they have been in decades. Some have even stated that emancipation was a mistake.

What I am interested in are the books people read.

Grownups turn to religious matters, young adults lately tend to read everything with happy ending. And when I say happy ending, I really mean happily ever after. Ever. Like in the sense of immortality.

And who could blame them, er, us?

Well, there is a part of society with more sense, if I may say so. And that little part is literally little (in the sense of age, that is). Elizabeth Bullen wrote a fantastic paper [4] on the subject of the power of darkness and why kids nowadays throw away books with queasy-sweet plots. I admit that I wouldn’t have read it if not for my term paper on “A Series of Unfortunate Events” by Lemony Snicket. To sum it all up, kids growing up in the “risk society” (parents having no job or on the verge of losing it, lack of money and depression) refuse to believe in fairy tales. One may say that they grow up faster, lose their childhood and what not. Well, it is not for me to judge is it good or bad. Sometimes things just happen, and it is not like we didn’t see that coming.

Time is running faster and faster, and it is not just me noticing it. My mother always said that there is very little time left, I only really understand it now.

I remember how my mother bought us head bands and we were jumping for joy not because we liked them so much, but because we knew it would make her happy. I remember how she bought herself a wooden comb, but her boss told her that they were not good. She was dissapointed; I was standing right next to her in an old lift, which always made noise. I dreamt that dad was standing in the middle of the road, and all the other other drivers where laughing at his old car. I remember how my dad’s face lit up when he bought a new one, how proud he was to take us for a ride. I remember how my sister went with me to my first cello exam, and how she lent me her skirt because I wasn’t dressed up for the occasion. I remember how she cried when she was little, I remember holding her in my hands.

And I am afraid of all the things I don’t remember, because I might forget the memories I cherish. I am afraid I don’t say „I love you” enough, I am afraid I forget to say „I am sorry” time after time. But most of all, I am afraid of what the future holds; I know not how I will go on without them.

your fears climb up 

your spine like spiders

how can i show you

you have nothing to fear

„ (..) So I met my old friend and instantly regretted not putting on something more chic and beautiful,” daughter nibbled a cookie, while her mum was baking apple pie.

„How so?”

„You wouldn’t believe how beautiful she was, like she had just stepped out of glamour magazine or something.”

„Who are we talking about?” sister descended from stairs and tried the pie. It was not ready yet. „Not the girl you were meeting today?”

„Actually, yes. Why?”

She looked at them with that how-can-you-even-think-about-that expression she had mastered so well. „Because she is not beautiful.”

„Wha-”

„Remember you told me to check the pictures of your previous meeting, and I did. I thought her to be pretty plain.”

„Friends see each other a bit differently,” mother switched off the oven.

„Meaning?”

„Well,” she poured milk in four glasses. „I personally think that the most beautiful woman is my best friend.”

„How can you think so?” daughter almost choked over her milk. „She has double chin and small eyes.”

„See? It depends on how you much you love the person.”

“My 5 years old nephew often takes the animation movie “Cars” with him when staying at our place. Either that, or he wants to see the “Pirates of the Caribbean Sea”, there are no other options. It is like some kind of security blanket, a piece of home he can carry with him,” the girl with the pony gazed at the white wall behind the others. She never looked people in the eye, when introducing new idea, only when she was sure they accepted it.

Krishna girl smiled: “Children are like that, all of them.”  She draw a circle in the air. “They grow used to one thing and can’t part from it. My little cousin always takes her napkin wherever she goes. This napkin is so old that its one corner is slightly darker than the rest and whenever she is sad, she caress her forehead with it. If she likes someone really, really much, she fondles them with the napkin.” Her hand moved absentmindedly to stroke the short bob.

“But grown ups are also like that, even if they wont admit it,” Pony girl crossed her legs. ”There are some movies or songs, or books that make us feel calm and as if the world was back in the right order. People are insecure even though we claim to be above all living creatures, we can’t stand alone without some reassuring piece of security.”

Standing above everything, they are dressed in reflections, but reflections are only that – copies of the real things. They are never really part of it. They are intruders, no amount of glass will ever change that.

There are people like that. They don’t fit into their perception of who they think they are. People like shattered pieces of broken glass put together again but not in the right order. They clatter around and reflect feelings, slowly forgetting how it was to be whole and real.

I think, therefore I am (Descartes). Thinking might be essential for being, but is hardly for living.

Reason is shot through with emotion. I feel, therefore I am.

Google tells me there are more than 4200 religions in the world, but it is safe to say that most of them believe in some higher purpose, faith, order of things, or chain reaction. It is a universal truth that some things go away so that others might come in place, that some things happen to prevent bigger misfortunes and, well, one has to think global. 

If you could choose between being right and wrong, which one you would take? If you knew that you were about to make a terrible mistake so that to prevent someone making even greater one, would you feel better about it? Or would you rather someone else did the crucial move and you could be safe and sound? 

No one likes to be wrong, to make mistakes, it is in human nature. We are proud creatures and mistakes are something one can’t get used to. Oh, we know all right that we are part of a bigger plan, but who would choose to play the idiot if the wise man was available. Even if it was for the greater good.

we just are and what happens, just happens

I told you it was cold. You told me “Summer’s mosquitoes are quickly forgotten in winter.”

I only really get it now.

 Amazing how beautifully white suits the morning. More amazing is that we have met the first messenger of winter without turning on central heating or having hot water at work. I feel medieval with my huge, warm grandmother’s scarf, watching tea vapour circling around the edge of the cup.

But apart from the sentimental romanticism, it does not feel good to be colder than I already was; though it does feel good to be able to find something to talk about with almost every colleague.

 It astonishes me greatly how people are more united in misfortunes than they have ever been in happiness. I can’t put my finger on it, really. Why is it so? Does it have something to do with the fact that everyone has its share of burden and there is nothing to feel envious for? Why are we capable of bitching together but only few are able to enjoy the happiness of the moment with others? We are so used to counting other’s happiness, I am afraid we hardly realize the amount of ours. 

In everything I touch
Feel their cold hands on
Everything that I love

There are people whose name we hardly remember. Their faces are a blur in our mental photo albums, we never mention them, they just were for a moment and then they were not. With some of those blurred images we have spent years together, some we met just passing by.

And then there are the others,  some of whom are almost strangers by the general laws of society, yet, when meeting them, something stirred our hearts like a seed being planted  in earth, put out its roots and hasn’t let go ever since. They staid and fought their way into every little thought that came in our heads, and we often find ourselves wondering what those people might be doing, which part of the world at the moment they call home.

We hardly ever call or write, but  simply let ourselves muse on the image in our heads, and just the possibility that we might have planted our roots into their thoughts and hearts makes it all magic.

“It is getting colder lately,” the girl stated the obvious.

“Yes, I never feel warm anymore,” she answered behind her large scarf. “Nothing helps.”

“Of course nothing helps”, her companion’s eyes lingered on the sight of city lights against the dark sky. “The cold comes from the inside.”

They passed yet another café. Finally she spoke: “Shouldn’t tea help?”

“Not necessarily.”

Brakes shrieked nearby; they thought of the cold inside. Indeed, tea couldn’t help.