“ An idea came to me recently. I wanted to write about people like you and me and how our simple perception can actually be way more complex then we perceive them to be. The series of texts is called Notebook of Mr and Mrs everyone.”

Filling the space you left with silence.
Sunday july the 26th.

Memories of you have been very present these days. Anything I see reminds me of you. Of us. If I happen to be driven back to my day to day life, people remind me of you. They remind me how hard it would be to live without you.

I don’t miss you the way people perceive me to miss you. What I miss perhaps was who I was when you were around. What you made me to be myself when you were physically present. I miss how you were the motivation of all my thoughts and actions. I miss that driving force you were in my life. I think I miss “us” and whatever it implies.

I function without you. It’s not that I don’t eat nor that I cannot sleep. It’s not that I cannot work or that I am not able to be effective in my work. It’s just that I don’t see any reason to come back home sooner. I don’t feel like cooking the way I used to knowing that I wont be able to share it. I don’t feel like writing now that you won’t be reading. In other words, I guess I don’t see any immediate reason to do anything now that I don’t enjoy whatever action I am taking.

I know you wouldn’t have liked me to live this way. But I can only create that lacking motivation to some extend. I can try to motivate myself reminding me that I need to do it to move on. That I am myself a human being even when you left this world. I have friends and they have a right to still relate to me. Those thoughts can make me live an apparently stable and unchanged life. Yet they cannot re-create the enjoyment that I feel has left me.

Can I say that a part of my soul has left me ? I don’t know. I think I miss you now in the way I used to miss you when we first met. Like lovers did back in the days. I remember how every hour, every day was difficult to live when you were not around. Yet there was always that sweetness in the waiting. I knew that we would meet sooner or later. That we’d be together. Now, that sweetness is gone. I don’t even know whether I can call it a waiting since there is actually no coming back. I don’t know why then my body still sends me signals of distress asking for its missing part.

Over time, I was afraid I ‘d forget you. After you left, I use to think after every true laughter I’d have. I used to associate any moment I would enjoy with signs of myself forgetting you. I felt like I wasn’t needing you anymore. I felt like that momentary enjoyment was the expression of a new freedom in which I could be me again without having to look for my own identity through us. I used to curse myself every time I thought I had forgotten you. Any new hope, new ambition was seen as a betrayal. I loved you and I had to feel your absence every day. This is what true love meant to me.

Time heals every wound that is what people say. What if time was the perception of how I saw my own life. Would that make the healing an active process in which I myself decide when I feel like moving on ? Now that I know I have started to enjoy life a bit like I used to, can I say I somehow chose to turn the page ? What if the page was not turned. What if you could have more than one page opened and still be able to read and walk and discover new things in life ?

I think this is how I moved forward. I tried to discover things and felt like you’d like to know about them. I didn’t need you to be physically present in my life to know that you would have enjoyed them. Your absence was felt still. But it was expressed at a lower intensity and that too formalized less often. I realized that I could develop different feelings at different times. And that my chaging personality didn’t mean I wasn’t real when you were around. It just meant that I was adapting. I have evolved I guess. Like you would have evolved if you were around.

If you were around I guess we would have evolved together making us believe that we were made for each other and that you were the only one I could have lived with all my life. Now I see things differently. I feel like human beings have the capacity to adapt as I said, to evolve. That evolution or the path you decide to take can be to some extend you own choice. When choices are similar, compatible or just appreciated, the feeling of proximity comes into play. Theres a point at which you feel so strong about that similarity that you think the bound in question is the only one that can satisfy that need you have within yourself to share everything you perceive.

I still believe you are the person I shared the most with and so far, no one has come to what I felt for you. What has changed is that I now realized that bound was the fruit of our constant living together, the discovery we decided we’d take together. I feel like it was an active process. A mutual will to take a journey on a similar path. I feel like we set things in motion for them to bring us as close as we were.

That change of perspective as subtle as it can seem redefines what a relationship is to me. I see it as the process of choosing the person you want to see your life with. A process of understanding, and devotion. With those notions in mind, I feel like I can give myself another chance since I stil have the capacity to evolve. I still perceive things and can share them. The path is the same, and there is still room for another one.

I think I told you everything now. I really should go. He must be waiting for me. I ll tell you more about him I know I ve been telling you about him. But I want to be sure he is good enough. I don’t want to introduce you to random people. Actually a lot of what he does reminds me of us. Sometimes I feel like you both you should meet.

I miss you still. Sometimes, I wish there was a life after death. So that we could sit and chat, without having to part.

I’ll think about you soon again.

Your love,

Mrs everyone.

In our life, many elements we dont think about play a big part reassuring us. They stabilise our route with their everlasting balance. Family, friends, places you like in a city, a weather you ve been used to, all of them in a way help you to have some sort of continuity in your life and because they appear to be stable, they give you the opportunity to think about other things that change. Because of their stability they allow you to analyse your own evolving personality, your growing faith, your changing friends …

When all those elements change in a period of time in which you are bound to change too, your mind gets a lot of information it has to deal with. It is a test, a test of maturity i guess. This is how people can judge who you are. If you become someone, you succeeded. If you dont reach the heights people expect you to, you are a failure.

I somehow try to imagine how i see this uphill i am walking on. And as hard as i try to convince myself that success will come by doing what i am expected to do, i cant accept it. I dont see this test as people want me to see it. I dont want to run after a hard fought and merited height from which i could dominate the person i was in term of qualifications. I didnt come here to add letters after my name. I think i came here to learn. Learn about what i like, learn about who i am. I came to meet others and i came to meet myself.

I am realising that after having spent almost half a year here, many things in my life havent changed and many choices of mine are still the same which confirms the fact that i need them to be the way they are. I realise that I am re dicovering who i am. I am exposed to my weaknesses and i somehow have a better idea of what i can expect from myself.

I am looking for myself and I am looking for the truth. I dont want to pretend i will one day reach it. I think i can satisfy myself thinking that i have been seeking it all way long. Intentions matter to me, realization will come sooner or later. Similarly, i seek knowledge and faith, success and fortune will come eventually.

I am happy the way things have been going so far. Meeting new people and living in a new environment only made me to tune my own personality. I had a slighly off focused picture of myself before coming. Now it is just becoming more clear. What i see in the picture is just the reflection of choices i made. Colours i see are just those i chose. People i see are those who shared the path i chose. People i dont see are those who walked away.

I am holding this picture in my hand and i am walking in that busy street asking everyone whether they recognise the piece of paper i am showing them. So far, people i met appeared to be lost themselves never beeing able to see any ressamblance between their picture and mine. I ll keep looking. I havent lost hope. Hopefully when i meet eyes which recognise their fate in mine i will stop for a moment. I will let those eyes dream with mine and i will put that picture back to where it belongs, far from everything it has suffered so far. It wont be seen again, touched by stangers hand. It will rest in peace with a new hope in mind.

My blood is different from others it seems. It fails to attract people’s attention. Whether I look different to others, or whether they perceive me as being different, the truth is that i dont disturb.

I wish that statement was just a mere perception. A statement said aloud in pain, with no facts to support it. But the more i try to convince myself that i am like others, the more history reminds me that i am not.

I have accepted the fact i guess. There are others people whoose blood is more valuable. Those blood drops generate more concern, more help, more sympathy. In other words, they attract living beings to avoid more deaths.

When i think about myself, a mere blood drop, having the same red colour as others, the same physiological needs , i wonder why i always fail when all other succeed. When i ponder on it a bit more, i always end up thinking that i am not the one who should be answering this question, rather it is those who see me as beeing different who should speak up and say what differences hurt them.

In august 1963, Marthin luther king made a famous speech in wich he said : “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character”

Today, 47 years later, a mere blood drop shed amongst flooding water, I have a dream too. I have a dream that one day I wont be ignored like I have been so far. That one day, the value of one’s blood wont be made according to the continent they live in, or the faith they follow.

I am a mere blood drop, fading away amognst flooding water. I cry but i fail to attract people’s attention. I die, and i fail to see my dreams realization. This is the ultimate truth of my life. And whether you want it or not, you are a part of it. Why ? Because you were alive and could have helped me. When every hope was lost, you could have saved me.

Dedicated to the 14 million people who had a dream.

I am a major burden for the international community.They cant rationally ignore my plea, yet they know they wont deliver the efforts they delivered for other crisis. So what shall they do ? The best way to make that guilt to pass is to create excuses. While the people of pakistan suffer from hunger and diseases being immersed in flood waters, it is time to remind people that the governement of Pakistan is the most corrupted one amongst “muslim” countries. The muslim had to be added. Makes more sense to non muslims.

One argument is not enough to make that guilt to fade away. “Hum… Let’s find another one. Something that Pakistani has, and that we do not have all and that we might be jealous about. Ha ! Nuclear powe”r. Argument Number 2 : Your government has money to have Nuclear weapons but when it comes to helping its own people, you beg around the world.

Two arguments are enough. Three and its a done deal. Let’s find another one. Here we go. “You want people to care about you while your own president was busy counting the number of rooms he had in his castle and the number “0′s” he had in his european bank accounts while “his” so called people where entering ramadhan having no other option but to fast all day and night so rare was the food on the ground hit by the flood”.

Now with those 3 arguments, we can justify our lack of sympathy for Pakistan. Mission accomplished.

This is what happened to me. I expected a helping hand and found a pointing finger. I am stuck between a rock and a hard place. Between my own governement, and a fading guilt.

I am a tear dop on the world’s indifferent face. I leave the eyes i was in. Eyes who witnessed more than they should have. I leave those already wet eyes in order to find peace myself in a dry place. I drop from the world’s indifferent face only to reach the ground where i thought I’d be more useful feeding a flower in need. I land but not on the ground. How could i forget ? I am surrounded by an ocean. An ocean of water amongst ruins of what used to be my home. I land on that immense quantity of water. My body joins the other billions of drops that formed that entity. Other tear drop join me. Rain starts to drop, and nothing comes. Nothing seems to have changed. My life or death didnt have the power to do anything. They failed to create a difference. Like you did when you decided to be indifferent.

Today, those lands are immersed. People who once were known to be masters of the most advanced irrigation system in the world are now fighting for a glass of water. Strange ?

The situation is such, that those people have to rely on helicopters to get something known as food which seems to be vital for poor people too. Some had forgotten that fact.

We gathered to help. From Montreal we were trying to help people from a distant valley. A valley we have visited all. Some came from Karachi, others from Lahore, some from Islamabad. We all shared memories of what that land meant to us. Spicy fries sold on the street, colourful rickshaws, funny taxi drivers, pathan trying to talk in urdu. Some recalled the rain, others talked about the shalimar gardens and the arches of ancient mughal architecture in lahore. Others recalled the wind from karachi’s beaches. Then came the topic of weddings, of cricket, of school life, family, friends, neighours, a whole new world was being drawn out, a different one from the one we were living in right now.

I havent visited that valey since recents events shattered it. I tried to imagine the country after those events. I closed my eyes and saw the picture of that valley before it was hit. I could see a frame full of life and sound, of colour and joey. Now i see myself pouring a glass of water on it. The water never stops, the glass never gets empty. I wake up in my dream and i see the frame. It is all wet. Colours are fading away and sounds are attenuated. Life there is, but joey there is not, and unfortunately, hope there will be not, soon.

With a spoon, i dig in that dream and collect water around the frame so that it can reach the surface, once again. It is a long journey. After every day of work i realise how much work there is still left. each and every spoon is a step towards rehabilitating those memories withing a reality.

I am not alone. My fellows around the world have gathered. Each one of us, with a spoon, is tyring to dry the ocean in which our memories have been drowned, memories which mean to us.

Sometimes, I see myself sitting on a karachi beach or in the shalimar gardens with a kid playing next to me. The kid comes to me and I hand him over a frame. The kid sits next to me and starts painting it. It takes hime some time to paint it. When he is done, he shows me what he did. He hands me the frame again and i can see joey, colours, sounds and life. I look at him and we smile. It is getting late. The sun is setting. I can hear the Athan. I take my son’s hand and we start walking.

I realise that having colourful memories full of sound, life and joey is now a privilege, a privilege i am fighting for with spoon. I want to meet myself that day on that karachi beach or that shalimar garden. That day, i know what frame i want to see my son painting .

dedicated to the 14 million displaced, and the dreams they all carried.

Your honesty will earn you people’s trust.

Your sympathy will earn you people’s love.

Your values and principles will earn you people’s respect.

Great people meet great people wherever they go.

Leave as you must. And live as you should.

I will survive and pretend nothing has changed.

You will stay in my mind as you will in my heart.

And that, even your leaving cannot change.

There’s only one thing you can do.

One thing to ease the pain.

One thing to hold my tears.

Leave me. But leave me with a smile.

During those days, I wasn’t really allowed to watch TV late at night and my parents always avoided watching TV before we would all sleep. The only programs that I could still watch before going to bed were the News. During those days, you often heard on TV that young women got attacked in the metro or on a Saturday after a night club. I was familiar with that scene. It happened in school as well. When two kids used to have a fight, it would usually end up in one attacking the other. In other words, the idea of one hurting someone else be it a man hurting a women, didn’t shock me that much. I knew it was wrong, but I knew it could happen.

Although I was familiar with the vocabulary used in the media when it came to cases where people were attacked, words such as “assault”, “aggression”, “violence”, “victim” or “aggressor” , there was one word that started coming over and over on TV and I didn’t know what it actually meant.

Since I didn’t know what that word meant and since it was often if not always used in circumstances that implied an aggression, I thought it was a synonym of the latter. I thought it was just a more formal way, a more “intelligent” way of saying the same thing. After all, it often happened that adults used words that sounded intelligent to me at that time.

So I naively admitted that both words meant the same thing. I felt good. I thought I was getting smarter, that I was now understanding more words used by older people. Maybe it’s the reason why I used that word to answer the question number 20 while when it was asked how a student got attacked in the highschool in the middle of the book.

When I had finished the exam, I remember having checked the spelling of that new word again. I had written it down in a perfect way. I took some time to make sure it was written correctly and in a very readable manner. I surely didn’t want the teacher to read it for another word. My teacher should know that although I came from a family where we didn’t speak French at home, I too could have had the command native french speaking students had over that language. I felt good about it. I was already waiting for the day I’d get my copy back and would appreciate lofty comments made on it.

The day came but somehow the glory didn’t. Or at least, not in the way I had pictured it. I got my copy. I had a good mark. I was satisfied with my grades. But there was no comment made on that word used. Instead, the word was underlined with a red pen. Not knowing why the teacher didn’t appreciate what I thought was the sign of a rich vocabulary, I raised my hand and asked to speak. Every one stopped talking and I finally asked my question.

“ Excuse me, but I didn’t get the correct answer for the 20th question mam. You just said that the correct answer was that the student in question was attacked in the school building by an unknown student”
The class seemed to approve. So was the teacher. I carried on with my explanation, confident about my answer.

“ If that is the case, why didn’t I get the full points on that Madame. I wrote exactly that.”

Amused, the teacher made me to read the sentenced allowed.

“ The student in the book was raped in the building by a student who we don’t know”. This was my answer.

As soon as I had finished the sentence, everyone started laughing. I couldn’t understand it. It was the correct answer. She was attacked/raped, it was the same thing wasn’t it ?

I felt very bad that day. When everyone started laughing at me, I became all red and I felt my blood was getting up to my cheeks. I didn’t say anything and pretended I understood my mistake. But I was only pretending. Why would one mock me over using rape instead of aggressed if both were synonym ? didn’t people know that French language had more than one word to say the same thing sometimes ?
I waited for the class to end and I took the bus back home. I was still thinking about that incident. Everyone had laughed at me. Me, one of the only son of immigrant made everyone laugh. It was a shame. I should have been an example and make my parents to be proud of me. I felt very bad and kept thinking about the incident till the bus dropped me home.

When I came home, my mother served me a glass of milk and things to eat which I didn’t touch. I left them on the table and went in the room I shared with my sister and my brother. I took a heavy book out, a dictionary. I started looking for the word aggression. I read the definition again and again. I was right. An aggression was a way of saying two people were physically fighting. Then I looked for the definition of what a rape was. It was the last thing I read before I saw some of my innocence leaving me for ever.

At first sight, he was just plain. A decent guy at best. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing too hot about him and nothing too cool either. He was just warm, at best that is.

At times, you even forgot that he existed. He was always polite with you. Not sharing anything more than what you thought was necessary. Things were such that you met him regularly within a group of friends but he never was a friend of yours.
During those days, other people attracted you more. You were young. What drove your instincts were passion, energy, and movement. These are the words that came to your mind when you wanted to describe what life meant to you. You thought anyone playing guitar was cool, people wearing fancy jeans attracted you. Popular soccer players of university were a dream.
He was nothing like that. Maybe that is why you often looked at him as friend of friend rather than as a friend. When people talked about him, you’d feel so distant as though the only link between you both were studying at the same university.
He was always around. Sometimes you thought about it. What makes him to be with “us” ? We’re so “in”, and he is so “mere”. There must be something maybe that made him to be in the group. Maybe he was nice after all. He greeted you with respect every time you met. When you thought about it more, you actually felt safe around him. You knew he would never hurt you.
A university degree can be long objectively. Perception of time can be very subjective though. People say university years come and go. Yet when you think about it, a person has ample time to evolve and to discover the constant changes its personality goes through.
With time, you changed too. So did your looks . Some of your friends changed, some of them did not. There’s still a guitar player or two, but the fact that they are still around you has nothing to do with their talent to master an instrument.
People came and left. They came closer for some time, before you took a step back and ran away. Every relationship of yours was a color added to the current frame of yours. A color was tested. Whether you liked it or not it helped you understand what you wanted your life to look like.
There was a time when you thought you had reached a peak in your life. You went to a university people would love to go to. Your parents seemed to be happy together after a time you thought they’d divorce. You dated the coolest guy in the group and your parents sent you enough money for you to spend your weekends smoking weed and drinking tea. Nothing was better than knowing you were loved. You had spent enough time at university to know what to revise and which class to attend. You spent your time listening to led Zeppelin and eating at odd hours.
How did you become to be what you are today ? you close your eyes. Think about some possible answers. There’s this painting that you like. A Persian painter. What was his name … Farschian ? Whenever you saw a painting of his, you’d always think about it: it all came from a blank frame and a colorful mind.
So you accept it. You evolved. You still are university. You got your bachelor’s degree and are now a graduate student. You have a settled routine and seem to appreciate cups of tea even more when shared with people you like.
You still have a group. A bunch of people you call yours. For some reason He is around. The person you thought you’d never come back to after university. Things have changed. He is someone you know better now. He was there at the right time for you. When your boy told you he didn’t feel good about you two, he was there watching. Your eyes had met at that time. You looked for a friend in him knowing he had the right to reproach your materialistic attitude of being with people you either thought were cool or with people you needed at a certain time. You didn’t perceive any complain in his eyes. He was just there. Present as he always was. A spectator of your life.
With time, people in the group left. And before some others would join in, you were often 3 or 4. Spent time watching old movies. Smoking weed became not so necessary to enjoy the evenings. Discussions were interesting. He talked a bit more while you listened first time in your life. You didn’t mind it when you were both the first to reach the small student room you hanged out in after classes. You talked gently and exchanged friendly.
With time he wasn’t just a friend of a friend. He was one of your own friends. You had his number and when He became busy in studies you’d Text him asking him how he was. He would always reply. Whether busy or not, he was there. That’s the first thing that attracted you in him. The fact that he was there even when he was not. The fact that he was present even when you couldn’t see him.
Seasons came and went. You started sharing more time with Him. You told him how your day went and He would listen. There was even a time when he told you about his family. He was at ease with you now. Politeness was still present as a reminder of his personality. But distances were not as great.
When you start looking at your watch every 2 minutes in a café waiting for someone on an routine hangout, you know that person means to you. I mean, you felt the need to tell him how your day went. You felt the need to feel he was there for you. You needed that presence of him. You got used to him paying your coffee every time you met. That was one of the reason why you liked him.
Being attached with a person is something. Being conscious of that fact is something else. There’s usually a time lapse between the two. It’s as though your mind needs that period of time for experiences to be repeated and averaged over time to be sure about the purity of a relationship. With time, you look for signs to become a more present. To become obvious for you to take a step forward. You’ve already dreamt on things that were not. Mistakes ( if we can call them mistakes ) you learnt from.
You thought about it. You became unconsciously conscious of what was happening. You felt the need of him being present in your life. You knew about that feeling since you already felt those for different people in your life. But now, with time, you learnt how to control them. Those feeling didn’t always materialize themselves into tangible acts. You didn’t call people to tell them you missed them randomly. You knew things had to be done in a certain way for them to last eternally.
Now that you were sure about your feelings, you looked for signs of a mutual attachment. You waited always thinking about your own changes. A person not so cool and not so hot was your fist impression. He was just warm as you thought once

You are waiting for him in the café. You looked at your watch again. The door opens. He enters. He hasn’t changed much physically. An average guy when it came to looks. Not so tall, common features. Not the sort of guy you’d turn around for after having crossed him on the streets. That guy was nevertheless what you wanted the most. He sits and smiles. His eyes smile too. He is happy seeing you and you feel it. As usual you feel better. You talk. His eyes are following you. He looks at you and looks are your hands translating your words into rough gestures.
In your relationship, you always talked more. You knew he wasn’t always comfortable sharing and you respected that. The night went on and like always he never showed you any sign of fatigue. When you were done, he talked a bit. You asked him a question and instead of the usual shyness, you saw a more relaxed person, not afraid of being judged. You liked it. You smiled.
He never complimented you on your looks. He never seems to look you the way other guys you dated used to. It is one of the reason why you always had this doubt. Maybe he has someone else in his life. Or maybe I am just a friend, a good friend, maybe his best friend but a friend still and a friend only. He never told you he missed you. He always replied with a smile when you told him so.
You were patient and let things go as they were. In your meetings, he talked a bit more. You deliberately avoided him for short periods of time to see whether he would come to you and he would, very formally though.
For the first time one day, he was the one proposing you guys to meet. A part of you shouted victory. It was an achievement in a way. You never thought a mere “I was wondering whether you would be free after class, maybe we could share a cup of tea” message from an old friend could be the reason of so much excitement.
You met. For some reasons you chose your clothes and tried to look good. For some reasons you went there early but came second. For some reasons he looked at you a bit more, differently. For some reasons you listened a bit more that night and for some reasons you knew things were in motion.
You can call it a coincidence, but the week when he started texting you randomly was the week before your birthday. You started wishing for the best every day. You looked at your phone at weird hours to see whether you might have missed one of his messages. Sometimes you’d just spend half an hour re-reading your message history.
On your birthday itself, you waited for him to call. At every sound your phone made you wished it was his message. You tried to hide your disappointment when other calls would show up. The day passed. No flowers, no call. Nothing. You knew you liked him very much when you realized you started looking for some excuses to quiet the voice in your mind reminding you he forgot your birthday. After work, you felt a bit down. A bit disappointed.
In the metro, you sat next to the window looking at mere passengers going by. You looked at your phone but there was no signal. So you re-read some of your past messages. “He must have forgotten. He likes me its obvious” is what you thought.
You had planned to buy some bread on the way back but the motivation had gone. You went home straight and took a nap. You woke up and went to the kitchen. Poured yourself some water and sat on the couch. Something was making noise. Your phone. He had called. “Shall I call back ? After all, it’s his fault he called so late”. You call back pretending nothing had happened. He is polite as usual. His voice was a comfort. You talked a bit. He didn’t mention anything about your birthday. Just talked about his day. For the first time in many days, you wanted him to ask you a question. You wanted him to take the spotlight and to put it onto you. That didn’t happen. He invites you in a bar, a friend of his had a concert. You decline. For the first time. He feels disappointed and you can feel it. You hang up pretending you had another call. You feel bad and don’t know why. You shed a tear and know you’re in love.
So you call him back. And tell him you were coming. He seemed relieved and it made you feel better. You felt like looking good for some reasons. Disappointment felt during the day started to leave only to be replaced by the longing you always felt before meeting him.
You took the bus, it was raining. Your hair were a bit wet. A bit like when you came out of the shower. They looked messier than when you had straightened them a while ago. But you knew he wouldn’t mind. So you reach the spot. Your friends were present, only your friends were present. The bar seemed to have been booked. Something was going on.
No sign of his. Where is he ? Are we close enough for me to ask other where he was ? Wouldn’t they understand. Wouldn’t it make him feel awkward ? You are restless. You call him, he doesn’t answer. The band appears on stage. All of them are friends of yours. They start singing. A tune everyone knows. People start singing : Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you dear “you”. Happy birthday to you !
You have tears in your eyes. Some of them are shed out of happiness for the moment that was. Some of them were dedicated to the wish you felt to spend that very moment with him. Your friend on the stage takes the mic and calls your name. You look at him and listen to what he said always thinking about where he was. He is thanking every one for showing up, and talks about you. About how you happened to be friends. About how you used to hang out only with people that played guitar. He talked about your years spent as undergraduate students. You thought his speech was just perfect, he grabbed everyone’s attention saying something I had not noticed : “ As you can all see, there’s no guitarist on the stage”. He was right, there wasn’t one.
Your friend then started thanking someone special. Someone without whom that night wouldn’t have been possible to organize. You felt something within your ribs. At a point, he asked everyone to welcome the guitarist of the group. Curtains were opened and a guy entered the stage. The guy was not so hot and not so cool either. He wasn’t very tall and had common features. He had a guitar on his hand and grabbed the mic with his other. You could feel he was nervous. He was looking at you as he started singing. A song that you liked, a song that fitted the context and your feelings. “what am I to you”. He finishes. Thanks the audience and leaves the place for another guy to come and take the guitar. Everyone clapped. The party was on. You looked for him as he came from behind the stage. He was stopping here and there as people were congratulating him for his brief performance. Finally he reached your spot. He came close to you and wished you a happy birthday.You looked at each other before you both faced the scene. He didn’t say anything nor did you. For the first time in your relationship there was no one speaking while the other one would listen. You both were listening to the sound of your hands meeting each other, as your souls were familiarizing with their respective missing part.

It wasn’t an easy decision but it was one I had to take. I have a dream, and to fulfill it, I had to leave. The place I was living in wasn’t compatible with my dream. My dream just couldn’t evolve. It was like a mere smoke, which could move and occupy the space it had but which was always closed within thick walls built in order to prevent people like me from realizing their true nature.

That dream means to me. It made me to leave those I love the most and those who love me the most. It made me to leave my life or what used to be my life. Like every human being, I need to be reminded that the path I chose is still the right one even if things are difficult at times. I always have to remind myself that I am here in order to become the person I want to be.

When alone, in pain, when I doubt my decisions, there is a place I go to that reminds me of my dream. I go there often. I sit there and I see my dream. I see colours, I see love, I see faith and I see me. I stay there for a while. I have hope again. I always leave that place from the same exit. Before leaving, at its doorstep, I always turn and watch that familiar sight. Again I see colours, again I see love, again I see faith but I don’t see me. With a polite smile on my face and a prayer on my lips, I look at the spot where I couldn’t see me. Yes, I couldn’t see me. All I could see was something new. That something new was called “us”.

Our world is the fruit of a mere perception. We see what we want to see and we only pay attention and nterpret things that catch our attention. And at that time, when i was crossing the street, i was just looking for the metro station and didnt see that lady struggling. She was just on my right. I went to her and asked whether i could help her. She was relieved and said she needed to turn on the right hand and go up the street. I took her to where she wanted to go thinking that i was myself getting even more lost and that id need to ask someone for the metro station after having helped her. In the meantime, i tried to talk to her. I asked her name and she then asked mine. I said i was sorry i didnt help her when i saw her first as i didnt realise she needed help. She said it was alright, she was more than glad that i came to her when i did realise she was getting tired. We talked for 5 min and i really felt better. For a moment, i forgot my loneliness. I forgeot i was away from those i love. I forgot that i was lost, lost in translation.

When we reached her place, she thanked me and said she was pleased she had met me. I was really happy having met her and having helped someone that needed me. I said good gye and so did she. She started to leave and i turned back looking at where i was and trying to figure out where the metro was. I looked on my right and on my left and i didnt know where to go. I raised my head and looked straight ahead. It took me some time to realise it. I was just there, in front of the metro. I couldnt realy understand what had happened. I was lost, lost in trnalsation. I thought i had helped that lady by helping her to reach the place she wanted to reach. I was lost before i had met her. Now i was standing at the place i wanted to reach. I had a smile on my face and i tried to look back to run towards that lady and to thank her. But there was no one there, she was gone. The only thing that was, and that stayed was my mere smile. A smile of a man who was lost, lost in translation.