Today we would like to share with you the beautiful story written by Jorge Bucay?
Learning to live and feel every moment of our life time is what constitutes true existence.
- It’s the story of a person who could be defined as a prosecutor.
- Knowing that a prosecutor is someone who conducts a search and that his intention is to discover “something”.
- There is no need to necessarily be the one who “finds”.
Nor is he a person who knows or is aware of what he is looking for, we are only talking about those for whom his life is a beautiful quest.
The story begins when, on a given day, a prosecutor wanted to go to the city of Kammir. He had learned to deal more rigorously with these sensations that came from a place unknown to him, so he decided to give it all up and leave.
After two days of walking on dusty trails, she saw Kammir from afar, just before she reached the village, a hill to the right of the road caught her eye, was wrapped in beautiful green and had many trees, birds and beautiful flowers.
Did some kind of small polished wooden ditch completely surround you, a small bronze door invited him in. He immediately felt that he had forgotten the people and succumbed to the temptation to rest for a moment in this place.
The prosecutor crossed the portal and began to walk slowly among the white stones that were randomly distributed among the trees. He let his eyes be those of a prosecutor; perhaps that is why he discovered, in one of the stones, this message: “Abedul Tare lived 8 years, 6 months, 2 weeks and 3 days. “
Blessed in his painful pain, when stubborn torment terrifies him, saying mocking the little earth, “There is my homeland,” and showing heaven.
Hector Gaitan
Was he moved to realize that this stone was not just a stone, it was a tombstone, was he distressed that such a young child was buried there?
Looking around, the man realized that the stone next door also had a record, came up and discovered that he was saying “Call Kalib lived 5 years, 8 months and 3 weeks. “
He was terribly moved. This beautiful place was a cemetery and, every stone, a tombstone. They all had similar inscriptions: a name and the exact life of the deceased.
But what surprised him the most was to show that, the one who had lived longer, had only turned 11, and struck by terrible pain, sat down and began to cry.
The cemetery passed and approached. He watched the prosecutor cry for a moment in silence, then asked if he was crying for a relative.
? No, there are no relatives, what’s wrong with these people?What’s so horrible about this town, why do so many children die and are buried in this place, what’s the terrible curse on these people who forced them to build a children’s cemetery?
The old man smiled and said
? You can calm down, there’s no curse, what happens is that here we have an old custom, I tell you: when a young man turns 15, his parents give him a notebook, like the one I hung around my neck.
It is a tradition between us that now that whenever someone greatly appreciates something, he opens the notebook and writes: on the left, what was used, and on the right, how long that pleasure lasted. .
Have you met your girlfriend and fallen in love with her?How long did this immense passion and pleasure of knowing you last?And the excitement of the first kiss, how long did it last?What about the pregnancy or birth of the first child?What about the most desired journey, and the encounter with the brother who returns from a distant country, how long did the pleasure of these situations last, hours?Days?
So we keep writing in the notebook every moment. When someone dies, it is our custom to open their notebook and add the time spent putting it in their grave, because for us it is the only real moment lived.