Last week I traveled to my hometown. I found the time and sorted the books from my old bookcase. I thought it would be a considerate gesture if I made a small donation to the town’s library. Small town, small library. It will be appreciated.

I’m heading towards the main room of the library and as I’m passing by, I see Mr. Jonathan (journalist, not his real name, but let’s call him so) in one of the rooms, browsing through the newspaper. I want to go and say hi, but I remember I had written to him some time ago about my interest in a traditional women’s blouse – he knows a lot of people – and hadn’t answered to me yet. He will have to come to me.

The librarian is glad to see me, she smiles, she is happy because of my donation. Some psychology books, a book about tantric sex, a book on jewish language (I wanted some years ago to learn another language, but I gave up, now I’m learning an even more exotic one – I am terribly  attracted by everything foreign, different, new, exotic).

We talk. She compliments me. We talk trivialities. Mr. Jonathan shows up – I knew he would. My visit is a surprise (everything is surprising in this town where almost nothing ever happens, but at the same time, my favorite city in the world, the city  I will always love the most). He compliments me on how beautiful I am. We talk trivialities.

Him: When are you getting married?
Me (I look at him smiling  the same way a school teacher would look at a pupil who hasn’t learned his lesson for the day): Mr. Jonathan. You are asking me normal questions for normal people. I am not a normal person, I thought you had figured that out by now.

I never enjoy these kinds of talks, as if it is a talk about a recipe for bread. So, when are you going to throw the flower in? Everyone does that. This is how bread is made. I am baffled when it comes to people thinking this is what life is about. Living the expected. The social expectations. I am saddened and surprised at the same time, how everyone seems to be in a hurry to live this common pattern, as if it was an algorithm for… Really, an algorithm for what? Success? Happiness?

I believe that personal happiness in life is as unique to each person just like a fingerprint is. A lot of people don’t take the time to notice this, or even follow their own bliss. They never listen to themselves close enough to hear their own blueprint inside, that will guide them to their true essence, their real song of happiness. If you do, then that is they day you realize, you don’t have to do what everyone does, or when everyone does it, for any reasons whatsoever, but do what you really want to do, and only what is according to your own nature.

I browse through random books on the shelves. He wants to write an article about me in the newspaper. He says he enjoys promoting talented people. I smile. We speak. No, I am not ready yet (I don’t know if not being ready is the real reason, or the lack of pleasure having people write about me). I tell him. Not yet…


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