For Whom I Wrote the Book?


- What is the book about? - he grinned, running his finger over the cover.

- About love - I described my dearest creation somewhat too sarcastically.

- So that means I’m not your audience.

- Every person is my audience - I disagreed.

The next day, he sent me sentences he had highlighted. And I understood that, thinking I wrote the book for myself, I actually dedicated it to everyone who has ever been in pain in life. And whose pain has not yet left.

For those who think they are the last fools on this earth, who still believe. And would like not to believe, but it seems that some things cannot be chosen. I wrote the book for those who never learned not to love. Who, without believing in God, learned to forgive more than a virtuous Christian. Because not forgiving would have meant losing. For the person who lost count of the evenings spent talking to the sky. For whom the only thing needed on those evenings was someone to say that everything will be alright. I wrote the book for the one who never learned to love half-heartedly. So they wouldn’t start learning. For the person who doesn’t try to push thoughts aside before sleep. Who, tormented by those thoughts, sits on the porch in the middle of the night, smoking, replaying the same scenario in their mind. I wrote for the person who has been hurt many times and enjoyed all those times of pain. Who fearfully realizes that in life they will only be able to choose between painful loneliness and even more painful love. For the person who had enough strength to pick themselves up anew, many times. Too many times. Who knows they will have to do it again and again. I wrote the book for You. Who, having nothing, managed to give the most. For whom the most beautiful sound in life became the breathing of another person. For those for whom the saying "time heals" remained the greatest lie of all time. I wrote for someone like you - who never learned to act correctly, because they tried with all their might not to do what they wouldn’t want done to them.

I wrote about the diversity of the whole world, about faith polluted by incense, about the strangest people and the most precious treasures - all so that between the lines you could find yourself. Let all those pages be for that one sentence. For those five or six words you needed so much but no one ever said them to you.

There is a saying that when you share pain it diminishes. This theory does not work with mine. Still, I learned to speak loudly about my wounds. I’m not ashamed of a single scar. Not all of them have healed, but just like then, and now - I wear them all as jewelry. They are my stories to you. About people just like us, who were shown a straight, gold-paved path hundreds of times, where you could walk unimpeded toward a "correct" life, but we, after hesitating in place, would eventually start running through the thickets where we fell and will fall more than once.

I wrote this book as an eternal reminder. That every time I decide to fix my life, I would open the pages again. So that when I remember all my life choices, which psychologists would twist their fingers at the temple discussing, I would smile. That between the pages I wrote for us, I would find again the only purpose in life.

It is very clearly defined there.

You’ll say - it’s simple. Trite.

But if you try to deny it - you’ll be lying.

I think you will like...