The true past

In the gentle embrace of my armchair, the Slovakian mountains stretched before me, a breathtaking panorama that stirred both tranquility and the echoes of long-buried pain. As I sat, a sudden jolt surged from the depths of my stomach, accompanied by vivid flashbacks that transported me to the village of my childhood.

The memories unfolded like a poignant film, and I found myself reliving the days when my mother escorted me to the kindergarten. Dread clung to me like a shadow, tears welling up as I resisted the unfamiliar environment that seemed to lack the warmth of acceptance. My struggle with social dynamics had made me an unwitting outcast, subject to the unkindness of those who effortlessly formed alliances.

The playground, once a realm of joy, became a theater of exclusionary games, where the rules were unwritten but brutally enforced. My young heart yearned for connection, but the invisible barriers erected by others denied me the camaraderie I craved. In the echo of their laughter, I heard the haunting memories of a time when I was deprived of the simple pleasures of childhood.

Driven by a deep-seated pain, I returned to the old kindergarten, hoping to decipher the mysteries of friendship and human connection. As I observed children at play, I marveled at the simplicity of their bonds. The warmth of companionship, the laughter that echoed through the air – it all seemed so effortless. Yet, the scars of my past lingered, shaping my perception of joy and despair.

Walking the familiar paths, I sought solace in understanding. How had the village, once a haven of unity, become a place where I felt like an intruder? The faces of the hardworking citizens, once proud of their community, now reflected disappointment and disapproval. Their joy in communal growth had soured with my divergence from societal expectations.

In the midst of my reflections, a newfound realization dawned. The villagers, entrenched in their roles, had cast me as an disruptor in their easy games of conformity. As they reveled in their camaraderie, I stood on the outskirts, a casualty of their collective decision to outcast me. The arbiters of social dynamics had dictated my narrative, labeling me and severing the threads of possibility.

The village, seemingly abundant in the tapestry of life, had become a place of scarcity for me. Exclusion became the norm, and the warmth of friendship remained elusive. Their judgments, etched into the very fabric of our interactions, became the lens through which I saw the world.

Yet, as I faced the mountains once again, a quiet rebellion stirred within. Life, I realized, was not to be lived according to the scripts handed down by others. The scars of the past were real, but they did not define my future. The proclamation rang clear – no more would I be confined by the roles assigned to me.

In the face of perceived scarcity, I embraced the abundance of diverse experiences. The village continued its rhythm, but I no longer danced to the tune of their judgments. Life unfolded, rich with possibilities, as I carved a path beyond the constraints of their easy games. The mountains, silent witnesses to my journey, stood tall, a reminder that in the face of judgment, one could still forge a path towards authenticity and freedom.