The Catcher in the Rye

It’s funny how books that you read 10-12 years ago can come back to your memory out of the blue, books that you haven't talked about, that haven't impressed you so much at their time, that you closed and never looked in their directions. And still, somehow, through the mazes and colours of memory, a person, a word, a mood re-opens those pages and offers you another perspective, another kind of understanding. That’s why it is so hard for me to name the books that changed my life, because there are so many.

We carry inside ourselves the books that we have read, the words that we once pictured, the pages that we thought long forgotten, like old songs that we haven’t been listening to for ages, and even so, still there … .

Maybe I believe too much in the human being. Maybe I am way too empathic, maybe I cross lines which should not be crossed. And in all my struggles to stop people from destroying themselves, I dance a tango with my own hubris, standing on that edge, burying beneath all these and absolute exhaustion all the unuttered words and feelings.

“Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around – nobody big, I mean – except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff – I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy." (J.D. Salinger - The Catcher in the Rye) 

Trust

Such a strong word. Such a difficult notion to be understood. Such an intriguing feeling to offer. And such a simple word that makes all the difference in the world.

We work day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. We get home and we start thinking of the things which we haven’t finished. We keep on saying that this will be the last weekend/the last Friday afternoon/the last extra activity that we accept and do. But that weekend becomes this weekend and then the future one, and so on. We neglect our bodies, perhaps our souls, and we keep on going … where to? What for?

Somehow, I think that it is more to this life than the simple things that we all wish for, from a home to a stable working place. I feel all my bones and cells literarily cracking, but at the same time, I feel all my energy and inner self rushing through my veins, not letting me sleep, not letting me stop, being at the same time my creation and my destruction. As one of our Romanian poets said, I need a mountain to be my body, I need a mountain with its tops and valleys, forests and lakes, summers and winters, to keep all that I carry inside myself.

Beyond all the long working hours, beyond the side-effects of all these, beyong the irritation that I am sometimes kicked out of my own room because I work so much, there is one thing that keeps me human, and that’s trust. Daring to believe in the (insane) human being, daring to think outside the box, and maybe more importantly – daring to trust my own guts.  

Because, after all, we all need something to believe in, don’t we?