Life is not as you read it in books

As pieces of art stir dormant ideas of mine, colorful bed cloth keep me warm in a lazy saturday morning, and feelings are pushed to numbness very meaningly so… I break the streak that has keeping me away from the necessary occasional purging –a new post– for a while now.

I do not like that word, purge, it has a rudeness about it, but right now I can’t think of any other word that suits best with I wanted to say.

Life is not as you read it in books, or as you see it in the movies. Wake up from delusion. There is a moment in life when most of us are faced with this universally accepted fact.

On one side… Most people’s lives are not major book sellers.

And to be honest, I have found it absurd how inspiring, helpful and/or reassuring fiction characters can be for me, feeling in my element with them more than with my own flesh and bones life companions; and also, I have found myself blaming the words that have encouraged the validity of my own idea of love.

On the other side… Lives –real or invented– just happen. Books aim a detailed explanation of them. And there are many types of books.

My own monotonous life, simple to the common eye, has enough material to create a book; my single unimportant life has a storage of thoughts, events, feelings, hopes and eye witnessed recollections to fill an encyclopedia sized novel.

You are allowed to say that my life is too boring to make a good book, that my inclination to loneliness, early night days, and home nesting happiness is unnatural; that the stories you read in adventure books, the passionate romances in others; the shocking happenings, the great ambitions… are all missing.

But there is so much that happens in life that no one ever gets to see… a thought that was stored in subconscious to oblivion by the same person who thought about it; a 300 meter walk home that held a life changing event; a 40 year spam life that went on without thrilling events, public glory or defeat; a person who lived taking care of cows until death came. Get into written intrusive and elegant detail about them, and that life is to be read on a book.

Try to describe someone watching a sunset and the sunset itself, assume that’s all this person used to do in life. Describe how it looks, describe how it looks to him; describe those minutes, describe him and what he feels; describe what you feel towards him. You have got a book right there, and a very good one in the right writer’s hands.

I conclude life is every bit as special, dramatic, exiting, impetuous, peculiar, and any other qualificative you know a book can be. A book just gives us the time and space to realize it, to elaborate it. A lack of big events in the physical world is possible, but a lack of events in the heart or the mind is impossible, whether you are aware of it or not.

Life is not as you read it in books. False.

…After all, I have seen long ago married 70 year olds that still hold their hands walking by.


Abstract life at present, and a little further

The words have been hiding from me; they went away with feelings better locked away than felt. This acquaintance took me by surprise at the beginning, now not so much; and as I remember the day when a small group of girls tried to smoke a cigar, being unsuccessful to even light it, I come to think that some things are for the best, and we get to see that in time.

I find myself, along with the rest of the world, not far away from the second month of the present new year; a year that promises more than the  novelty of 366 days instead of the usual 365. Changes and options are approaching in an unusual speed, most of them mostly good. Others, like vampire love stories, tire me, for they have been the same too often, for too long.

And as the sun sets and the breeze gets colder, so do I, submerged in this world of mine so filled with double binds.

I was talking the other day with someone who told me he believed it was true the world was coming to an end this December. I suppressed my laughter; his intellect (yes, we carbon based entities hold huge amounts of contradictions in ourselves) helped me do that. But I don’t want to talk about the conversation. I want to think while I write… Anything that I could truly want to do or to have in case the world was truly coming to an end, is not something I have any control over. I can’t control it, and this bothers me, me, the person who can tell if her orchid has been moved 1 cm from its original place. No, I will not tell you in specific what lies in the deep bottom of my heart. At least not in this post.

So, I guess life is like a book. Why do I always create a simile between complicated things and simple things? Who’s to know? But well, a good book can describe water in a bowl, simply that, and marvel its readers while at it. A life and a book can be composed of simple things, but nonetheless be meaningful and worth having. Both are unpredictable and give you surprises, and not all the time what you wish to happen will happen. It’s neither good nor bad; it’s just how the story goes…