She looked at the wall, at the shelf of books. All of them had been read. Some disappointed her less, some more. How do people dare to write nonsense, she asked herself. It was hard for her to believe that the more books she read, the less chance she had of avoiding disappointment, but like most people, she hoped for a different conclusion and kept doing the same. The path I'm taking must be the right one, because how else, she thought.
The last book she read was about a history of hatred. What did she hate, besides herself? Almost nothing.
In therapy, which she started going to in her thirties, she realized that she could express her emotions in public. That self-destruction is not the only possible way of existence. She felt liberated and disappointed. The disappointment continues to haunt her - she is not happy with the realization that by working on herself, she can push other people's boundaries, and ultimately her own. Taking responsibility makes her alive, and her previous life hasn't made her very happy. She is happy, really happy, when she starts a book. When she reads the first chapter. A new world, not yet discovered, without disappointments. She is happy because for a moment nothing is certain.
If she could become someone else for a moment, she wouldn't know who. Because she didn't even know who she was. “The name and surname in the passport, the TIN and the passport number are not an identity,” she read in one or more books. She did not know what to do next when she did not understand what she liked and what she did not like. What does she believe in? What should she believe in? How do others know where the truth is, and how do they know what is their truth? What is the truth?