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Natnwe - What is life?

Natnwe - What is life?

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(1)

The director said, “I’m only stopping you out of respect for your father. If it weren’t for that, you would have flown away from here a long time ago.” I replied, “You’re just bragging that I can really fly.” Then I heard him say something.

"Take him away, I'm angry."

Two days later, I was fired. This meant that I had to change jobs nine times since I became an adult. Much to the dismay of my father, the chief architect of our town.

I worked in various government departments. But all nine of those jobs were just drudgery. I sat at a desk. I wrote and typed. I listened to people talking nonsense, or talking in a loud voice. Then I waited to be fired.

When I approached my father, he was sitting cross-legged on a chair with his eyes closed.

His face, thin, without a beard or mustache, dark blue in places where he had shaved his beard and mustache, expressed a subdued and subdued expression. (His expression resembled that of a church pianist.) He did not respond to my greeting. He did not open his eyes.

“If your mother, whom I love so much, were still alive, you would always be causing her pain. So tell me, you useless bastard.” He opened his eyes and said, “What should I do to you?”

When I was young, my friends and relatives knew what to do with me. Some advised me to join the army. Some advised me to go into medicine. Some told me to go into the telegraph office. But now I am 25 years old. When my hair turned gray on both sides of my ears, I joined the army, I joined medicine, I joined the telegraph office. When I had nothing else to do in this world, they stopped giving me any advice. They just shook their heads and sighed.

“What do you think you’ll do? Other young people your age are already enjoying the company of officials, but what are you? A pauper, a beggar. A man living on his father’s lap.”

My father continued.

Then, as usual, my father began to talk about how young people today are being ruined, how they are being ruined by not understanding religion, how they are being ruined by materialism, how they are being ruined by being infatuated with idolatry, how fun plays and dances should be banned, and how these plays and dances lead young people astray from religion and responsibility.

"Tomorrow we will go together. You must apologize to the director, and you must promise him that you will do a good job. You must not spend a single day without a position in the human world."

Father concluded his speech.

“Let me tell you something, Dad. The position and rank in the human world that Dad talks about are jobs that come from capital, money, and education. But people who don’t have money, people who aren’t educated, are still earning a living through their physical labor. Why can’t I earn a living through physical labor?”

I spoke, knowing that talking to my father would not do any good.

“What do you mean, physical labor? You have big eyes, you are so lowly,” said my father angrily. “Hey, you stupid,

It was created to be close to heaven. This fire is the best crop in this world. It has been around for a thousand, ten thousand years. Your grandfather was a general who fought in the Battle of Borodino. Your grandfather was a great poet. He was a great orator. Your father was a great man.

"A teacher. And I, your father, was an architect. All of us Polos have been keeping the fire of God. You never blow it out with your mouth."

"We need to look at the truth. There are a lot of people in this world who are doing physical labor."

"Let them do it, they do it because they have nothing else to do. They have to do hard labor with useless people and prisoners in prison. Hard labor is the work of savages and peasants, of our kind. Only a few people have the fire that God has given them. Fate has created it."

I can't answer anything by continuing to talk about it. My father is a self-worshipper. He only accepts what he says.

Besides, the reason he talks so much about physical labor is not because he is afraid that I will become a laborer and the whole town will point fingers at me. In fact, all my peers have long since graduated from university and are already well off. The son of the state bank manager is a graduate. His only son is a free man.

It wouldn't do any good or bring any relief to keep saying that, but I sat next to him and kept complaining, hoping that he would finally understand me.

The problem was simple and straightforward. I wanted to earn a living. But instead of talking about it simply, they talked about the Battle of Borodino, God's Fire, and the poor poets of the Moldavian people, who wrote poems that people no longer know, and they cruelly called me a fool, a fool, a fool.

But no matter what, I want them to understand me. I love both my father and my sister. I always consult them before doing anything, and it has been ingrained in me since I was a child. I can't break away from that tradition. Whether it's right or wrong, I don't want them to be unhappy. I'm worried that my father will be angry and his face will turn red. I'm worried that he will be hurt and have a stroke.

"How humiliating it is to sit in a stuffy, closed room and copy letters against a typewriter. It's an insult to a young man my age. How can you call such work the fire of God?"

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