Mind matters

Today Klara was anxious in such a way that it was impossible to stay in bed as usual and wait for the alarm to officially wake her up. She got up, went to the bathroom, took a shower, got dressed, kissed her sleeping son and husband and closed the front door of their apartment. It was one of those days when the air had a different structure- it was thicker and it got stuck to the sides of your lungs and instead of filling them up and helping you breathe it just makes you feel blurry.

She was entering as usual the subway in a way only a ghost would enter a place- silently, without paying any attention to what is going on around him and just heading straight to the correct waiting spot. She got on and immediately took a strategic position in the corner that allows her to observe the people around her even though she usually observed inwards.

Klara wasn’t feeling well these days. She had this strange pain coming from unknown location inside her body. Physically she was functioning, she even ran some blood tests as the normal people would do, right? But it was all fine. Fine- she said to herself. However, she was still wondering what is it that bugged her- was it something real- or was it all in her mind. And are the mind matters real at all or are they the ones shaping our reality? And how can a person dealing with the mind matters be fine?

Klara is one of those people you can’t see reading a book in the bus – she is one of those people who treated books specially as something too sacred to just take out of the bag and open in front of everyone. It takes solitude and peace to read a book. That’s why recently she hasn’t read any books but she missed it. She also missed the smell and touch of a new book being opened for the first time. So few new books and so many old ones you wish to close…to finish.

The other day she was in their living room when her son came in the room carrying a page thorn from one of the books in their library. She did not how to react- how are you supposed to know? She took the page from her son’s hand. Explained him that he is not allowed to tear pages from the books and that those stories described in the books need every page. It was part of them. Small, big, important part. At first the little one started crying – then he stopped. Later the same day he was standing by the bookshelf struggling to put back the page into the book. It wasn’t possible.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once said -“I cannot remember the books I've read any more than the meals I have eaten; even so, they have made me.”