People should read books more, because nowadays there are too many reality shows and bad movies that ruin people’s taste. TV programmes have strong influence on human population, especially young people, so they should read good books more often. Everyday, I can see youth infected with bad taste, pap and trash and I feel sorry of them, because they do not appreciate the true value any more. Classics are books that can help people in their intellectual development. Because youth is becoming uneducated, they ought to spend more time reading about intellectual topics. Therefore, instead of wasting time on video games, cheap movies and vulgar shows, young people ought to pay attention on good literature. Discard contents which just waste your precious time and devote yourself to useful things. Read about topics you’re interested in, but sometimes you should give a chance to something what wouldn’t usually be your choice and maybe you’ll find out something new. Books include wide range of topics, so I believe there’s
some topic for everyone. That’s a chance for young people to become young intellectuals, who are ready to be successful in their lifes.
I had really strange dream last night. Before I fell asleep, I was upset because of my homework, but I still was very tired, so I fell asleep very quickly. My dream was like a movie. I could feel soft blanket in my hands and little helpless baby in it. The city was crowded with people and cars and there was traffic jam in the street. Suddenly, I started running with the baby in my arms and pushing people, sending them on the ground. I was running and running, without stopping. When I came to the traffic light, there was red light, but I didn’t care. Therefore, I decided to continue running. Everything was in a slowmotion, like in action movie. Baby in my arms was crying, because I was clutching her strongly. At the moment I was in the middle of the street, one car run into me. That’s when I woke up. I was shaking, covered with sweat. The dream had realy upset me and I stayed confused and in a bad mood.
Sometimes I would call her in the middle of the night and sobbed over the telephone wires out loud, but I can't. I can not break that built picture of myself, because she can not lose her idol, someone who is powerful and strong, who knows the solution to all our problems, who is always happy, smiling and careless. Being an older sister to someone so fragile and gentle is tough role. Who will protect her from injuries and who will always be the smartest, if I show weakness and despair? Sometimes it seems as if my soul is torn apart and it's all black and hopeless, and I just want someone to hug him and tell him what's on my heart. Sometimes she is the ideal person to cry and scream until losing breath about my problems that bother me, because she knows me so well, because I know that she can trust her unconditionally, not as a friend or a guy who can turn and leave me tomorrow , but as a mother, as someone who has been there whatever happens, whatever I did. But, I can't. The mere thought of it to see me broken and defeated would erase the glow in her eyes that tells me I'm dominant, a wise counselor and the her best, safest mainstay. So, every time I thought in the midst of my resonate sobs to call her, I'd throw the phone as far away from myself and proceeded to stop my tears with the pillow, alone, far from home, and everything I had known a few months ago.
And it seemed to me that everything was like the year before. I wrote the same one, but familiar phrases and sold them the same stories.I laughed on some of their more or less funny jokes and a bit of this, a little way,I was turning the same story again. That was still the same me and my ridiculous habits. Only, they weren't you.
It was so hard to understand that all of my loved ones were miles and miles away from me, even my mother. And that they were in the other town.Even the fireworks were just a set of shinny sparks and I did not have any feeling that the New Year was and that someone was celebrating at that moment . My younger sister often asked me how I could be alone in an apartment in a large city, how I could sleep alone at night and not to be afraid.But, I did not feel lonely, as if my mother was next door and as if I could call her for help immediately when I needed it.I felt that that big city was full of people I knew and who I could call, but then again, I was afraid of the other types of loneliness.
If some things had happen, it probably would have destroyed those that were occurring, but, still, I often wished that things were different. And of course I wanted to find someone after you, a better and more perfect man, who would protect me and cherish me more than you did. But something simply did not give me a chance to find in others that close, known, beautiful feeling that someone belonged to me, because headless man who was still lying in my bed, on his shoulders could handle only your head, just your character, your hair ... And I could not imagine someone else's fingers caressing my hand and someone else to be called mine. I know that these stereotypes were stupid and pathetic, but what I could do, but to begin to keep them to myself, because apparently at that moment I enjoyed my freedom.
It's so strange when you know that vast, normal thing for days, months, years…And suddenly it doesn’t exist. There’s not that thing. As if it never existed. It fell apart. Disappeared.
I looked in the mirror for days and tried to figure out what had happened to us, but all still seemed unreal, like a dream. As a dream when one day I would wake up and everything would be back as it’d been. He would be there again. Our ‘’thing’’ would exist again. I couldn’t believe he didn’t know what was happening to me at that moment. He didn’t know what I’d done on my exam. He didn’t know where I’d gone out the previous Saturday, when I’d argued with my mother and what I’d bought at shopping mall. I was looking forwards to tell him that joke we’d laughed on the night before and to tell him all details about our adventure which had happened on New Year’s Eve. I knew he would laugh. I knew how he would laugh, too. It would took the whole night to tell him about everything that had happened for all that time. Well, if I decided to tell him everything. Much of the important things would seem unimportant for me at that moment, because I would wish to hug him and kiss him more than to talk to him about that. I wanted to hear what he’d done on his journey abroad. I wanted him to retell me all that binges with his friends again and the new ones, which I hadn’t heard. I wanted just to know if he had been in that same street in the same old, ugly apartment or somewhere far away where I hadn’t ever been. And I couldn’t stop asking myself.
But, the only thing I knew was that one day we would talk about all that. I didn’t suppose, I was sure. We had to.
I had to tell him about all news and things that had happened, about everything I’d seen, heard or experienced. Because, only spoken to him, all that made sense.
