As a second year arts student, I experienced many stories. My subjects as such were beautiful, they were meant to tell stories. Stories that inspire, stories that tell us about the past, stories that explain reason, stories that make us cry and stories that make us learn. I've always thought of them as beautiful. No other word in my mind can otherwise take it's place.
These stories always collided with each other. History for example for me, always mingled with literature. The literature explained me of the lost souls or the generation of them while telling me their past. It intrigued me, honestly. IT did. The words in the books flowed like a river full of fresh water. Their words on the page, not stuck to the paper with ink but running wild in my mind.
It wasn't just history that collided with literature, it was vice versa. As I read the world war and how all the alliances were formed, I imagined the writers pouring their hearts out in the only way they knew was relief for them. I imagined how all the small wars happened, and in my mind it was one dimensional. It was as simple as France joined with England or how outbreak of Austria with Serbia just cracked the deal or how Hitler just hated the Jews. There, simple to say. It was. I remember reading it a million times, i remember writing it, I remember summarizing it and I remember how I formed notes just in the hopes that i would get a good grade. It was as simple as that for me. Yes, it was. Until a moment came where it wasn't.
It wasn't some pivotal moment where my life changed and someone made some radical change. No, it really wasn't. IT was quite normal I suppose. I was sitting the same place I always sat, with the same books I read, the same information I was supposed to read for my exams when my mind stilled. I read about the same war, the alliances were still the same so were the actions, except this time I wasn't.
As I read it again, I realized how much of pain they carried. I only read who came out victorious and how many casualties would have occurred. And I cried that moment, not the pretty tears but an ugly sob that wrecked a havoc. I did not see the casualties just that or the people of lost generation as just someone affected by something. Each one of them had a life just like me, they must have had families, they must have had their love story, their promises. How none of them could have the life they once imagined, how families must have been broken, how some of them must have died despite of being alive, how 2 people could never love again, how the soldiers never stood a chance to go back and how horrid it must have ll been. In a struggle for power defined by mere geographical boundaries they lost it all, all their stories remained incomplete. And those who experienced it all, lost themselves forever.
It was that moment when the severity of those words haunted me. I felt lucky to here and safe but in m y mind I imagined innocent souls going away in a swap due to chemicals produced by us. It was that moment, I knew what exactly people meant by humanity with us and how we are destroying it ourselves.
Yes, the words in my book were simple a I always thought they were. The pain in it was real. The pain I never experienced even though the words demanded me too. The stories were real and so were the people which was something I never reckoned but they were.I think it is hard to imagine them as real, because if every moment we live we realize the amount of pain the world has, none of us would be able to survive.
So, I cried my heart out. I did, until the gaping hole in my heart felt a little less sore. IT would take time to see things as they were, which right now I think were unreal, but I was glad to be awake. Even if it was for a moment.
These stories always collided with each other. History for example for me, always mingled with literature. The literature explained me of the lost souls or the generation of them while telling me their past. It intrigued me, honestly. IT did. The words in the books flowed like a river full of fresh water. Their words on the page, not stuck to the paper with ink but running wild in my mind.
It wasn't just history that collided with literature, it was vice versa. As I read the world war and how all the alliances were formed, I imagined the writers pouring their hearts out in the only way they knew was relief for them. I imagined how all the small wars happened, and in my mind it was one dimensional. It was as simple as France joined with England or how outbreak of Austria with Serbia just cracked the deal or how Hitler just hated the Jews. There, simple to say. It was. I remember reading it a million times, i remember writing it, I remember summarizing it and I remember how I formed notes just in the hopes that i would get a good grade. It was as simple as that for me. Yes, it was. Until a moment came where it wasn't.
It wasn't some pivotal moment where my life changed and someone made some radical change. No, it really wasn't. IT was quite normal I suppose. I was sitting the same place I always sat, with the same books I read, the same information I was supposed to read for my exams when my mind stilled. I read about the same war, the alliances were still the same so were the actions, except this time I wasn't.
As I read it again, I realized how much of pain they carried. I only read who came out victorious and how many casualties would have occurred. And I cried that moment, not the pretty tears but an ugly sob that wrecked a havoc. I did not see the casualties just that or the people of lost generation as just someone affected by something. Each one of them had a life just like me, they must have had families, they must have had their love story, their promises. How none of them could have the life they once imagined, how families must have been broken, how some of them must have died despite of being alive, how 2 people could never love again, how the soldiers never stood a chance to go back and how horrid it must have ll been. In a struggle for power defined by mere geographical boundaries they lost it all, all their stories remained incomplete. And those who experienced it all, lost themselves forever.
It was that moment when the severity of those words haunted me. I felt lucky to here and safe but in m y mind I imagined innocent souls going away in a swap due to chemicals produced by us. It was that moment, I knew what exactly people meant by humanity with us and how we are destroying it ourselves.
Yes, the words in my book were simple a I always thought they were. The pain in it was real. The pain I never experienced even though the words demanded me too. The stories were real and so were the people which was something I never reckoned but they were.I think it is hard to imagine them as real, because if every moment we live we realize the amount of pain the world has, none of us would be able to survive.
So, I cried my heart out. I did, until the gaping hole in my heart felt a little less sore. IT would take time to see things as they were, which right now I think were unreal, but I was glad to be awake. Even if it was for a moment.
