After more than four obnoxious, and at the same time, irresistible years, my consciousness has finally been relieved of my conscious. That is the only way how I could view the publishing of what is my book. It took that long for the ascent to take place. I don’t deem it a success; I don’t dwell on it as failure. It is here, the same way I am, that same way I have always been – honest, in front of the world and many times against it, by myself but never alone. And I guess the Creator of the natural selection never meant to give me a face that is easy to read, but the heart has never been even remotely cold, and it has never turned against me. And the eyes could never give away a deceitful spark no matter how hard I have tried. In spite of all I have willingly made them go through. I would apologize to the way I have been treating them straight away, but there are no guarantees I have up my sleeve that would not make me continue my way. Maybe love would do that. One day. Today.
This piece of now, nicely wrapped paper has not always looked as gloomy. It took me more than a year to realize that such a development has to come out of me. Different events triggered its creation; one in particular cemented its initiation. And as much as that moment didn’t sleep well with me, I praise the day for having it happened. It unleashed something in me that I had never thought existed – it unleashed my own consciousness. That moment of my own revelation is irrelevant to satisfy your unjustified curiosity. And that is the reason why I will not share it with you. Or with anyone else. I will keep it written in the mental film of the people that have remembered it, including myself.
One day, shortly after the moment, in a boring class of my graduate studies, the outline of this heart-full piece of paper started taking its confident shape. I can still remember the insecure professor’s face with his ridiculous glasses while my eyes pierced through him, and at the same time not even considering that I was projecting my own beliefs. All I remember was when the class ended, I knew who the bells tolled for. I had in front of me a scheme of what I thought I could never bring together. But I guess something made me do it. I went home after the class. I was still unsure of the impact my little unexpected escapade had. I slept over it. I woke up. And I started. There was no going back. It took me more than a year to finish. When I would ask myself what made me keep on writing, I had only one thought in mind. To write it off me, to close it, and to literally burn it – it never failed on me. I saw the book burning as the only way I could award it some decency. Because of my promise. Because of my passion for it. Now it is here, to be shared with that small big part of my world that would perhaps want it read. I have betrayed my initial promise, and I have no defense against it. Despite that, I don’t feel guilty about it. Because burning it would have been a flamboyant exercise that would mean the moment to me, but nothing more. The concept would have been discarded. I have realized that this way only I could achieve what I had subconsciously intended to do in the first place – to have it challenged. Bring it on.
To all those who might have mistakenly interpreted the book’s pages, and to all those that might seem obliged to do so: this book is not an autobiography like some would be tempted to accuse it of. In fact, it has nothing to do with me. It has only to do with the concept of all of us; the concept that none of us is shamelessly willing to accept. Why? Because it’s real.
This book is devoted to my parents. And at the same time, this book reflects all my family and friends, along with the invaluable perfect strangers and all the love and safeness they have never deprived me of, those same feelings that ever kept me going. They know who they are. Thank you. And you will stay that way as long as I do. And as long as the Indifferent Concept lives on.
25 May 2012