Who Are You?

That morning, the man, as always, got up at seven in the morning. Like every morning, he pulled his slippers to the bathroom, and after the shower, he shaved and smelled. He dressed in fashion, as was his custom, and went down to his door in his mail. There he encountered the first surprise of that day: there were no letters! In recent years, his correspondence has increased and was an important factor in his contact with the world. A bit unhappy about the news of the lack of news, he rushed with his usual breakfast of milk and cereal (as doctors recommended) and walked out onto the street. Everything looked as it always was: vehicles usually went through the same streets and produced the same city sounds that they complained every day. Crossing the square, he almost collided with Professor Exer, an old acquaintance with whom he used to talk for hours about useless metaphysical settings. He greeted him with a waved hand, but the professor did not seem to recognize him. He called him by his name, but he was already distant and our hero thought he had not heard it. The day started badly and seemed to worsen the threats of boredom that floated in his soul. He decided to go home, read and research, in order to receive letters that would certainly arrive, even more numerous to make up for the one he had not received before. That night, the man did not sleep well and woke up very early. He got down and while breakfast, he began to peer out of the window waiting for the poster's arrival. He finally saw him turn around and his heart jumped. However, the postman passed his home without stopping. The man came out and called him to make sure there were no letters for him, and the postman convinced him that there was nothing in his bag for that address, confirmed that there was no strike in the post office and that there was no problem with spreading letters around the city. Far from calming him, he was worried even more. Something happened and he had to find out what was going on. He put on his jacket and walked to his friend Mary's house. As soon as he arrived, he announced to the housekeeper and waited in his friend's showroom, who immediately appeared. Sinclair began to greet the host, but he limited himself to ask him, "Excuse me, sir, do we know each other?" The man thought it was a joke and he made a lusty smile asking the other to give him a drink. The result was catastrophic: the owner of the house called the housekeeper and ordered him to throw him out of the house of a stranger, who in that situation lost control and started shouting and insulting giving a strong servant even more reason to ruin him in the street ... By the way home there are acquaintances from the street, who ignored him or acted as if he were a stranger. One thought came to his mind: a plot against him was organized, and he committed some strange error to this society, because he is now dismissing it as much as he appreciated it a few hours ago. Nevertheless, no matter how he thought, he could not remember any event that could have been perceived as an insult, and even less of an event in which the whole city would be drawn. Over the next two days, he stayed at home expecting a post that did not arrive or was eager to visit a friend who, surprised by his absence, knocked on his door to inquire about him. But nothing happened: no one came near his house. The mug did not come, and did not answer, and the phone stopped working. Encouraged by a slow cup of glass, the man's fifth night decided to go to the bar where he was always with friends to comment on everyday nonsense. As soon as he entered, he saw them at the table in the corner that they would normally choose. Fat Pajdo was always talking the same joke and everyone was laughing in the usual way. The man approached one chair and sat down. Immediately the icy silence dominated, which suggested that the stranger was undesirable. The hero of our story could no longer endure: "May I know why you are all like that to me? If I did something that upset you, tell me and finish it once, with this, but do not be like that to me, because I'm going crazy." The others looked at them as if they entertained them, but they were angry. One of them rotated his index finger around the temple, posing a newcomer's diagnosis. The man again asked for an explanation, after which he asked for an explanation and eventually fell to the floor, begging him to explain why he was doing it. Only one of them addressed him: "Sir, we do not know you, so you have not done anything to us. In fact, we do not know who you are." Tears began to sink into his eyes, he got out of the bar and dragged his body all the way home. It seemed as though his legs were heavy. When he entered his room, he threw himself on the bed. He did not know how or why, but he became unknown, alien, did not exist. He was no longer in the addresses of his colleagues, nor in the memory of his acquaintances, and even less in the feelings of his friends. There was a thought in his mind, like a hammer blow: a question that was posed by othersnything to us. In fact, we do not know who you are." Tears began to sink into his eyes, he got out of the bar and dragged his body all the way home. It seemed as though his legs were heavy. When he entered his room, he threw himself on the bed. He did not know how or why, but he became unknown, alien, did not exist. He was no longer in the addresses of his colleagues, nor in the memory of his acquaintances, and even less in the feelings of his friends. There was a thought in his mind, like a hammer blow: a question that was posed by others and he began to ask himself, "Who are you?" Did he really know how to answer that question? He knew his name, his address, the size of his shirt, the number of his documents, and some other information that he had assigned to others. But beyond all that he really was, inside and in the depths of his soul? That taste and attitude, those tendencies and ideas, were they really his? Or were, like many, an attempt not to fail those who were expecting to be what it was? Something became clear to him: because it is unknown, it releases the obligation to be something specific. Either way, nothing would change in the reactions of others to him. For the first time in the last few days, he discovered something that calmed him: it puts him in a situation that allows him to act as he does, not seeking approval from everyone around him. He took a deep breath and felt his new air entering his lungs. He realized that his blood flowed through his veins, he felt the tingling of his heart, and he was surprised that, for the first time, he did not tremble. Now he finally knew that he himself, that it had always been, had himself and could now laugh or cry. .. But for yourself, not for others. Now he finally knew: His existence does not depend on others. He discovered that he had to stay alone in order to face himself. He was sleeping sleepy and dreaming beautiful dreams. He woke up at ten o'clock in the morning, discovering that one of the sun's rays of the day went through the window and brightly illuminated his room. He did not bathe but went down the stairs singing a song he had never heard and found something in front of the door: a large amount of letters addressed to him. The closet was in the kitchen and greeted it as if nothing had happened. And at night in the bar it seemed as though no one remembered those strange nights of madness. At least no one was apprehensive of commenting. Everything came back to normal ... except for him, luckily, him, who will never again have to beg anyone to look at him to know that he is alive, him, who will never have to pray to the environment to define him, who never again will not feel the fear of rejection. Everything was the same, except that this man will never forget who he is.

Siddharta Gauthama

KO SI TI? Tog je jutra čovjek kao i uvijek ustao u sedam ujutro. Kao i svakog jutra, odvukao je svoje papuče do kupaonice, a nakon tuširanja obrijao se i namirisao. Obukao se po modi, kao što je i bio njegov običaj, i spustio se do vrata po svoju poštu. Tu je naišao na prvo iznenađenje toga dana: nije bilo pisama! Posljednjih se godina njegova prepiska povećala i bila je važan faktor njegova kontakta sa svijetom. Malo neraspoložen zbog vijesti o nedostatku novosti, požurio se sa svojim uobičajenim doručkom od mlijeka i žitarica (kako su preporučivali liječnici) i izašao na ulicu. Sve je izgledalo kao i uvijek: vozila su po običaju prolazila istim ulicama i proizvodila one iste gradske zvukove na koje se svaki dan žalio. Prelazeći trg, gotovo se sudario s profesorom Exerom, starim znancem s kojim je imao običaj satima razgovarati o beskorisnim metafizičkim postavkama. Pozdravio ga je mahnuvši rukom, ali čini se da ga profesor nije prepoznao. Pozvao ga je po imenu, ali već se bio udaljio i naš junak je mislio da ga nije čuo. Dan je loše započeo i činilo se da se pogoršava prijetnjama dosadom koje su lebdjele u njegovoj duši. Odlučio je vratiti se kući, čitanju i istraživanju, kako bi dočekao pisma koja će sigurno doći, još brojnija kako bi nadoknadila ona koja nije primio prije. Te noći čovjek nije dobro spavao i probudio se veoma rano. Sišao je i dok je doručkovao, počeo je viriti kroz prozor očekujući poštarov dolazak. Napokon ga je vidio kako skreće i srce mu je poskočilo. Ipak, poštar je prošao ispred njegove kuće a da se nije zaustavio. Čovjek je izašao i pozvao ga kako bi se uvjerio da nema pisama za njega, a poštar ga je uvjeravao da u njegovoj torbi nema ništa za tu adresu, potvrdio je da u pošti nema nikakva štrajka i da nema problema s raznošenjem pisama po gradu. Daleko od toga da ga je umirilo, to ga je još više zabrinulo. Nešto se događalo i morao je saznati o čemu se radi . Obukao je jaknu i uputio se kući svoga prijatelja Marija. Čim je stigao, najavio se kod kućepazitelja i čekao u salonu svoga prijatelja, koji se odmah pojavio. Sinclair je raširenih ruku krenuo u susret domaćinu, ali ovaj se ograničio na to da ga upita: "Oprostite, gospodine, mi se poznajemo?" Čovjek je mislio da je to šala i usiljeno se nasmijao tražeći od ovog drugog da mu natoči piće. Rezultat je bio katastrofalan: vlasnik kuće pozvao je kućepazitelja i naredio mu da izbaci iz kuće stranca , koji je u toj situaciji izgubio kontrolu i počeo vikati i vrijeđati dajući snažnom slugi još više razloga da ga grubo izgura na ulicu... Putem prema kući sretao je poznanike iz ulice , koji su ga ignorisali ili su se prema njemu ponašali kao da je stranac. Jedna mu je misao pala na um: organizovana je zavjera protiv njega, a on je počinio neku čudnu grešku prema tom društvu jer ga ono sada odbacuje toliko koliko ga je prije nekoliko sati cijenilo. Ipak, ma koliko razmišljao, nije se mogao sjetiti nikakvog događaja koji je mogao biti shvaćen kao uvreda, a još manje nekakvog događaja u koji bi bio uvučen čitav grad. Tokom slijedeća dva dana ostao je kod kuće očekujući poštu koja nije stigla ili žudeći za posjetom nekog prijatelja koji bi, začuđen zbog njegove odsutnosti, pokucao na njegova vrata da se raspita za njega. Ali ništa se nije dogodilo: niko se nije približio njegovoj kući. Spremačica nije došla, i nije se javila, a telefon je prestao raditi. Ohrabren pokojom čašicom više, pete je noći čovjekodlučio otići u bar gdje se uvijek nalazio s prijateljima kako bi komentarisali svakodnevne gluposti. Čim je ušao, vidio ih je za stolom u uglu koji bi obično izabrali. Debeli Pajdo pričao je uvijek isti vic i svi su se po običaju smijali. Čovjek je prišao jednoj stolici i sjeo. Odmah je zavladala ledena tišina koja je sugerisala koliko je došljak svima nepoželjan. Junak naše priče više nije mogao izdržati: "Mogu li znati zašto ste svi takvi prema meni? Ako sam učinio nešto što vas je uzrujalo, recite mi i završimo već jednom s ovim, ali ne budite takvi prema meni jer ću poluditi." Ostali su se pogledali kao da ih to zabavlja, ali i ljuti. Jedan od njih vrtio je kažiprstom oko sljepoočnice postavljajući došljakovu dijagnozu. Čovjek je opet zatražio objašnjenje, nakon toga je zamolio objašnjenje i na kraju pao na pod preklinjući da mu objasne zašto mu to čine. Samo mu se jedan od njih obratio: "Gospodine, mi vas ne poznajemo, tako da nam ništa niste učinili. Zapravo i ne znamo ko ste." Na njegove oči počele su navirati suze, izašao je iz bara te vukao svoje tijelo sve do kuće. Činilo se kao da mu je svaka noga teška tonu. Kad je ušao u svoju sobu, bacio se na krevet. Nije znao kako ni zašto, ali postao je nepoznat, stranac, nije postojao. Više ga nije bilo u adresarima njegovih kolega ni u sjećanjima njegovih poznanika, a još manje u osjećajima njegovih prijatelja. U njegovoj se glavi pojavila misao, poput udarca čekića: pitanje koje su mu drugi postavljali i koje je sam sebi počeo postavljati: "Ko si ti?" Je li on zaista znao odgovoriti na to pitanje? Znao je svoje ime, adresu, veličinu svoje košulje, brojeve svojih isprava i još neke druge podatke koji su ga određivali prema drugima. Ali izvan svega toga ko je on zapravo, unutra i u dubini duše bio? Onaj ukus i stavovi, one sklonosti i ideje, jesu li doista bili njegovi? Ili su bili, kao i mnogo toga, pokušaj da ne iznevjeri one koji su očekivali da bude ono što jest? Nešto mu je postalo jasno: to što je nepoznat, oslobađa ga obaveze da bude nešto određeno. Bilo kako bilo, ništa se ne bi promijenilo u reakcijama drugih prema njemu. Prvi put u nekoliko posljednjih dana otkrio je nešto što ga je smirilo: to ga stavlja u situaciju koja mu omogućuje da se ponaša kako želi, ne tražeći odobravanje svih oko sebe. Duboko je udahnuo i osjetio kao da mu novi zrak ulazi u pluća. Shvatio je da njegovim venama teče krv, osjetio je otkucaje svoga srca i iznenadio se da, prvi put, ne podrhtava. Sada je napokon znao da je sam, da je to oduvijek bio, da ima samo sebe i sada se mogao smijati ili plakati. .. Ali zbog sebe, a ne zbog drugih. Sada je napokon znao: Njegovo postojanje ne ovisi o drugima. Otkrio je da je morao ostati sam kako bi se mogao suočiti sa samim sobom... Mirno je zaspao dubokim snom i sanjao prelijepe snove. Probudio se u deset ujutro otkrivajući da jedna sunčana zraka u to doba ulazi kroz prozor i predivno obasjava njegovu sobu. Nije se okupao nego je sišao stepenicama pjevušeći neku pjesmu koju nikad nije čuo i našao je nešto pred vratima: golemu količinu pisama naslovljenih na njega. Spremačica je bila u kuhinji i pozdravila ga kao da se ništa nije dogodilo. A navečer u baru činilo se kao da se nitko ne sjeća one čudne noći ludila. Barem se nitko nije udostojio uputiti nikakav komentar. Sve se vratilo u normalu... osim njega, srećom, njega, koji nikad više neće nikoga morati moliti da ga pogleda kako bi znao da je živ, njega, koji nikad više neće morati moliti okolinu da ga definiše, njega, koji više nikad neće osjetiti strah od odbacivanja. Sve je bilo isto, osim što taj čovjek više nikad neće zaboraviti ko je.

Siddharta Gauthama