Letter for a friend....

Dear Hector,

How are you old friend? A while ago I remembered your request and decided to write. 2 years ago you asked me if I'll ever be able to understand humans. After constant wondering, I found out that most of the times it is impossible to fully understand a human being. You will probably say that anyone could have told me that and i just wasted 2 years for nothing. Maybe, but I wanted to discover humans through my own eyes. I spent a lot of time with different kinds of human beings. Some delighted me, others disgusted me. Among some, spending time was a real pleasure. Nothing meant more to me than the friendship of those who deserved it. Spending time with them, getting to know them, taking part to their happiness or sorrow meant more to me than you will ever know, my friend. I will forever remember them and the time spent together.
Unfortunately, This kind of humans is rare and you must be very lucky to meet them. Many are a shame for the man kind. I sometimes wonder how can such examples of supposed rational beings exist. Most of them can not even be called rational. Their behavior is more similar to that of an animal, most of the times led by primitive instincts not ration. They thrive on the suffering of others, they seem to enjoy misfortune and have a tendency to create it as often as possible. I will probably never understand how a supposed evolved can result to murder of his own kind, greed when he has more than enough, destruction when he has the ability to create and there are more, but these concern me the most. Sometimes, examples of the human race disappoint and there is nothing that you or I can do about it.
This is how I see humans, good and bad. I hope that I haven't disturbed you too much, but this is how i see reality. Any contradictions will be more than accepted.
As a reminder I am still thinking about our constant argument regarding the Divine. I'm looking forward to the day your are going to make me believe in God. With arguments...

Best wishes,
Michael



Din plictiseala fata de realitate, comunic cu imaginarul despre realitatea mea.