My life is spinning around the books. From them I extract my sap with which I nourish my soul. I would be able to give up all the people on earth (with a few exceptions, of course) and receive with open arms the idea of humanity that exists in books. Did you notice that in stories we always know which is the positive character and what is the negative character? Unfortunately, this does not happen in real life as well. Here you never know how honest and fair a man is, because we are all gray. None of us is just white or just black.
The people I believed disappointed me, making me afraid of too much privacy. I still rarely have the courage to hang on to people, to show them what I feel and what I want. Because people have the bad habit of using such information to hit you with your own weapons, to haul yourself on the ground using the weaknesses it reveals to you. And we all have weaknesses, weaknesses that can hardly be hidden, are we? And there are such things in books, but there we know for sure what the character would do for it and we despise it from the first moment.
Among my friends are people who say I should write books, that I am good at this. Some promise they will buy my books right after publishing. I smile roughly and tell them that I will think about it, although in my soul I know I will never write books because it would be hard for me to invent negative characters and allow them even for short periods , to hurt positive characters. And if I do not choose this path, the book gets boring, and the first ones who will sue me will be those who have big expectations from me.
A person I have in my friends list on facebook and who I know little about real life told me this morning that he wrote a book about a great writer. He asked if I was interested in buying it. Politely I responded with a Yes, although I did not care about this kind of book. Much harder I would have liked to hear that he had gathered in a book the poems he wrote, for they are wonderful. His answer hurt me and made me understand that sometimes what is beautiful is not sold.
He told me publishers do not have the courage to invest money in poems, no matter how beautiful they are, because people do not buy them. They are right. Even me, who love books so much, do not give money to poems. Maybe I did this when I was 16 years old, but now, a woman maturing up, I prefer another kind of book. Over the past few years I’ve been taking refuge in stories and fantasy, for I prefer to see new worlds, not to remember that on this planet there are children starving or thirsty, as elsewhere in the world are people living in a rushed luxury or as my country streets are full of homeless dogs and cats.
In fact, if I think better, I realize I could write a book about all these discontents that bitterly bring to my heart and nobody finds a solution. I could write a whole saga on this topic, starting from the fact that children die in Africa because they do not have the water to drink and wash, while we, Europeans, fill the evening baths with water only in the evening let the sweat go down, and ending with the fact that at Polar North polar bears have become weaker than stray dogs walking on the streets of my town.
In fact, I think I would like to write such a book, to free myself of all the wickedness I have gathered in my heart because there are huge differences between people on this planet, to make peace with myself and with humanity, love people again and forgive their mistakes. I just wait for that brilliant idea to come to me, to figure out how I can put my displeasure in a successful novel, so that the people caught in the story can make them read with pleasure and even learn something from it, change their mentalities and their habit.