Laish ma tebtasmain?

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

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Waiting patiently for the results of the elections...

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I sit cross-legged on my bed surrounded with marked books, newspaper clippings, and papers. I go through them one by one, willing myself to comprehend the world. A motorcycle accident I witnessed years ago flashes through my mind when I glance at the article. An article about how people prefer "The Road Not Taken" triggers a series of thirsty questions. A book about a lady Burned Alive in her own country due to social chains brings to mind the many that have gone and are going through what she has. And then, I remember a book that I never got back, One Hundred Years of Solitude, and I smile at the magic of Macondo. I turn to the piles of paper, and I hesitate. I pick one up.

I read something I wrote ages ago. I am the same different person, now. Funny how the pages tell me that I was lost back then, as well. In a different way, of course. I pick another paper up. It ends with "Why not?" I remember the many times I said that in order to justify my reading. I pick another paper up. A definition of beauty. That hasn't changed. Slight alterations in my choice of words. I pick another one up. I blink twice. I smile. I tear up. I still smile.

I can never forget those days. The days I was challenged to answer questions about my existence, my life, and my purpose. Each question is written with a sophisticated hand. Then, the answer. The answers. Like the rules demanded, in blue or black ink. No corrections. If a thought seems incomplete, put a period. Go on. Don't scratch things out. Leave them the way they are. This way, I'll learn who I am. I read them all. Every single word.

I haven't changed. Not really.