Yesterday I happened to spend a couple of hours in the center if Paris. You know, this part with magnificent architecture, clean streets and posh people.
I went to my favourite place – a stationery shop. I don’t exactly know why I like them – maybe because then I can dream of all the wonderful notebooks to write my poems in, or diary, or phone numbers, or anything. Basically I rarely buy that stuff, but I like to look at it.
And yesterday I discovered that I, too, have a break point somewhere.
I can understand notebooks, poetry books, guestbooks. Even if they cost a deadly sum. I can almost understand the hundreds of pens and pencils. It’s all for creativity, somehow. I can understand pre-decorated writing blocks. I have a penfriend and I know that I’ll keep her letters forever, take them out in 10 years, read them over and so on. I don’t mind if the letters are beautiful and decorated; it’s nice.
But there’s something I can’t understand. And it feels completely out of the place and people are not aware and… whatever. In short, in a world with millions of children basically starving to death every single day, there is an oasis of a shop (and not the only one!) in the middle of Paris where people cannot decide what kind of invitation cards they should buy for the occasion of their baby’s 1st birthday. Whether to take pre-decorated cards with teddy bears or barbie dolls?
They are only used once, and probably discarded right after being read; I cannot imagine anyone ever keeping an invitation or thank-you card.
So the invitation cards turned out to be by breaking point. And the people I saw walking around in there.
It reminded me of an old lady I helped for a short while last year. The lady was fine; but her middle-aged daughter was a fruit of its own kind. By the time I realised how vitally important it was that I pulled the curtains in the right moment of the day, did all the movements in the right order and so on, it was too late. I was discarded.
I think she saw me as a kind of ideological poison. But there was no way I could explain her that a girl who had preferred sleeping overnight under a bush on a UNESCO site to a hotel room just three months before, and lives in a 20-square-meter tinyhouse and is completely happy to have food, home and internet, a girl like that can never give too much importance to curtains, make-up bags or placing your dishes in the right order.
And then I’m standing on the streets of Paris, watching such people with their posh clothes and superior attitude and wondering – how can they buy meaningless one-time-things like invitation cards? Don’t they realise that people are dying of hunger partly because of their “traditions” and lifestyle?
How can we ever persuade them to change their attitude? If they are able to throw 10 meters of curtains to the garbage just because there’s a stain, without even giving a thought that maybe someone else could re-use them.
And the person who created those pre-decorated invitation cards, didn’t he ever think about what he was creating?
Invitation cards are definitely evil. People, oh people, why did you create them?
I understand I’m overreacting and there are worse things in the world and that I’m a hypocrite because I buy meaningless stuff as well and sometimes I throw things away.
Argh, what a world.