If I was asked when I was a child what heaven meant to me, I would have given a probably weird answer: sitting all day long - maybe more than one day - in a field full of poppies. There was to me something so fascinating about these flowers that I couldn't help but loving them. As a child I spent maybe too many hours thinking about these flowers and I even recieved them once. When I was 14 and I published my first poetry book( a rather local event, it was never meant to be a bestseller, so it simply wasn't, just a book read by teachers and family, just the dreams of a child.) there was this man - I could call him a family friend, a remote family friend, perhaps - who somehow found out about my obsession with these flowers and brought me a large bouquet of poppies: it wasn't - of course - the kind of bouquet to give to a young lady, I think, but I was after all a weird girl. Weird flowers for weird girls.
Years later - let's just say nine years later - here I was, in this train, in this big city, when something happened. By the way, let me tell you first my story of Copenhagen. When I was little, my parents - actually my dad - wanted a lot of stuff from me. Be good at Math, read a lot, but then when all this reading made me dependent on glasses, it was of course my fault : why did you have to read so much??? Well, in order to motivate me, I think, my dad told me that he participated in the International Mathematical Olympiad, in Copenhagen. Of course he hadn't, he was never that smart, he wasn't even interested in studying, but he has chosen Copenhagen because it sounded sort of exotic to him and if it sounded exotic to him, it would of course sound exotic to a couple of years old child. I never got that far - not at an International Olympiad - but I got to the exotic place. My dad sort of sealed my fate, without having any idea. I bet it has never crossed his mind that of all the places in the world I would choose Copenhagen. Or maybe Copenhagen chose me.
So here I was, in the train, going to work, same old routine, right? Just checking Facebook like a maniac, because, after all, this is what we all are, isn't it? A generation of Facebook maniacs. We have a lot of free time but we live less than all those people centuries ago that used to work non-stop. At the end of the day, we sort of regret the day that just passed: what have I done today? We use our phones during our lunch breaks, we use our phones in the train, we use our phones when we are with our loved ones, everywhere and everytime. We have become some robots whose only mission seems to be scrolling down. Scroll down, scroll down, scroll down....You know everything about me - what I did last summer, when I was born, who my mother is - but you don't even smile at me when I meet you on the street. You "like" what I ate yesterday, but you have no idea what my feelings are. We have become dependent on social interaction, some walking zombies and no one seems to admit it. Someone who will read what I wrote, will say :"talk about yourself." I am talking about myself - there are so many things I would like to say to people around me, so many feelings I would like to express, but there seems to be no one to listen, unless you do it online, maybe. Therefore I write. How about you? How do you express yourself?
It only took a second for me to look up to realise that the freaking train tracks were surrounded by my dream flowers. It so happened that the train was delayed for half an hour - half an hour spent surrounded by poppies, what a beautiful May simphony! It took me only two minuts before I became distressed: I was going to be late for work, and though no one says anything if you text them, I CANNOT STAND BEING LATE, in freaking capital laters! Being late at something - at anything - is a torture for me, I cannot emphasize enough how distressed I am when this happens. But those two minuts before starting to freak out were just like a dream. It reminded me of a missed childhood, of some beautiful flowers, of a sweet sleep that resulted in beautiful dreams. It reminded me of how much I miss being held by my mother, it reminded me of a little girl who would always trip, who would always stumble, but would never stop running. Two minutes - just two minutes - just like a sweet dream with a bitter taste at the end. It made me ask myself: what did I lose? How much is there for me to lose? Will I ever be whole again?
Ps: I hope I will update with a poppies photo!
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