Sometimes, I find it hard to come to terms with the fact that I’ll probably never meet again the people that have touched my life, in one way or another. Existence has a way of pulling you together and sometimes, irreversibly tearing you apart. Many would think it’s cruel and unfair, but we must always bear in mind that there are many other opportunities beyond the horizon, and chances to find solace in others.
Seeking redemption in lost connections could prove fatal to a worn and wary soul.
Seldom do I borrow books to friends - it’s a bit like stripping myself completely naked. In fact, one of the most intimate gifts I can give to someone is just giving one of the books that I read and I loved. And no, I don’t mean the same title repurchased once again from any bookshop, but the same book I thumbed through, page by page. ‘Cause I don’t simply read them and that’s it. I live them. I add notes to the side, I highlight sentences, I fill them with traces and symbols I identify myself most with. Just know, if I gift you one of “my” books, in all those scribbles and signs made with pens and pencils you’ll find inbetween the ink printed words, there are hidden parts of me. If you want to know me, look for me among the underlined phrases. One line, two lines, one pass all colored, some words handwritten vertically: there, lie words I still have yet to muster the courage to say.
If I gift or borrow you one of my books, I’m not simply saying, ‘this story is very nice, I want to share it with you’, but I’m telling you much more;
'you know, I trust you, dive into me'.
I hope that in the end, when I shut my eyes for the very last time, every bit of resentment I have towards my father will be dissolved into blissful solace. Oh father, why have you hurt me so much? I feel like I am beyond repair.