Chapter 1: In short, the day is over

That year I was eight years old.

Later, I also found life boring many times when I failed the exam at fifteen, fell in love at the age of forty, unemployed at thirty-three, and having achieved all success at the age of forties.

But eight years old has the boredom of being eight.

That was the day for some reason why I thought that life had nothing to wait for.

Many years later, I have learned that philosophers and theologians are still struggling to find the meaning of life, and they are unlikely to find it by the Moroccan New Year.

But when I was eight years old, I found life was nothing new to explore.

The same sun shines every day. Still black curtain that falls each night. On the roof and on the leaves behind the garden, the wind still lamented the wind's voice. The bird is still singing the bird's voice. Crickets voice crickets, chickens clear voice chicken voice. In short, life is old.

My life was more old. Every night, before I go to bed, I know tomorrow what events will happen in my life.

I told them: In the morning, I have to do my best to wake up while I still want to sleep. Of course I had been pretending to be in a slumber even before my mother let out a hoarse voice and shook me, but of course I remained as blank as a log until my mother tickled the soles of my feet.

When I set foot on the ground, I have to brush my teeth and wash my face, in short, do morning cleaning before being pressed against the table to lazily chew on something that is often out of taste. My mother has always been concerned about her health and concretizes her concerns by forcing me (and the whole family) to eat nutritious foods while I only enjoy what she deems unhealthy. Fat, like instant noodles.

It is good to be concerned with your health, and the older it gets, the more true it becomes. No one dares to say that it is not good to care. Me too. When I was an adult, a journalist interviewed me, what are you most interested in between health, love and money? At first I talk more about love, later on I talk more about health. I ignore money, even though I see it as an injustice: money has never been acknowledged as a primary concern even though money goes out to buy gifts for love and medicine every day. yeast for health.

But okay, that's the story of the adults - the story of the future. As for me, at the age of eight, I just remember that I didn't like to eat nutritious food. But of course I still had to eat, even with reluctance and laziness, and that's why my mother always lamented me.

Having finished my morning meal (not happy at all), I hurriedly searched for books to put in my bag, picked up another book from the top of the television, another book on the top of the refrigerator, and pulled another one out from under the blankets and pillows. , of course there is always something missing, then three legs and four legs rushed out of the house.

The school is close to home so I walk, but in reality I have never enjoyed the pleasure of walking to school. I have to run all the time. Because I always get up late, always do late cleaning, always eat breakfast late, and take a lot of time to collect my notebooks for a class. About this, my father said: "Son, when he was my age, he always packed his notebooks neatly into his bag before going to bed, so the next morning just take his briefcase out of the house!".

But when my father was the same age as me, I was not in the world to check what he said, because when I was three years old I am now sure I will repeat to my children what he said to me - story pack my notebooks before I go to bed and lots of other things that I never do.

Well, for things like this, you never ask for proof. Sometimes for some reason we are forced to make up stories.

We keep repeating the story until one day we do not remember whether we made it up, and then after a while if we keep repeating that story many times, they I will believe it is real. Even more so than ordinary belief, which is unconditional belief, almost conviction. Like mathematicians who believe in the Euclidean proposition or Christians in Jesus' resurrection.

Oh, but those are also adult problems.

I continued my story when I was eight years old.

So, if I leave the house for a while, I go to school.

In class I always sit in the last seat. Sitting at the last table is spoiled for chatting, arguing, pinching or playing all kinds of mischief without fear of being discovered by the teacher, but the most attractive thing in the dark position is that it is rarely asked to answer the board.

That has its laws. Remember, you do have a lot of friends, you love so many people, but you do not always miss them.

Our memory is too small to hold many faces or names at the same time, only when we see that person in the street or encounter that name in a newspaper report, do we suddenly remember and feel exclaimed "Oh, it's been a long time, I haven't seen him. Last year, I was stuck with money, and he lent me five hundred thousand!".

My teacher is the same. How could she remember me and ask me to answer the cards when she couldn't see me in the middle of a pile of heads and necks bobbing in front of me.

Every day as well as every day, I sat there, gossiping and stirring, and waited for the bell to come out to play to death.

During the years that people call it ornate to crush my pants on a school chair (I would be frankly imprisoned in the classroom), I didn't like any hours, from math, writing practice to. hours of reading, hours of spelling. I just like every hour out.

Going out is probably the best thing an adult can think of for a kid. Going out meant that the teachers' golden words slipped out of memory as quickly as the wind, extremely smooth. Going out means getting rid of the crib (of course, having to press the belly to get back in), and being allowed to breathe free air.

During my school years, my friends and I used those rare moments of freedom on soccer and marbles, but most often and most enthusiastically are chases, fights, or grapples. Until no one looks like a good student, that is when his elbows are scratched, his eyes are bruised, his legs are limp and his clothes look even worse than cleaning rags.

Why don't I ever leave in here. Because leaving means leaving one prison to go to another, just like people transferring camps to inmates, there's nothing cool.

I'm not exaggerating, because every day welcoming me at the top of the alley is also the worried face of my mother and the face of my father.

- Oh my God, why do you always go out like this every day?

Roughly my mother said that, her voice gasped, speaking while squeezing the top of my bloody arm as if to see if it was about to fall off me.

My father has a different way of saying it, very close to the way the dragon spits fire:

- Are you fighting again?

- I'm not fighting. My friend hit me and i hit back.

I lied (though it was more true than telling the truth) and when my father approached me in the form of a tenth-tier storm that hit the mainland, my mother pulled me away:

- Grandfather, the child is already crushed!

My mother had a very similar exaggeration to me, I chuckled chuckling at her while chasing.

After that, without saying, everyone knew that I was thrown into the bathroom by my mother. When I was as pure and fragrant as a freshly baked loaf of bread, my mother started to apply all kinds of red and blue green medicine that made me very soon look like a chameleon.

Of course, from then until the meal, I was not allowed to leave the house to avoid having to fall into various games equally attractive to the kids in the neighborhood, the opponents who were very worthy substitutes for us. at school.

What did I do when I was eight when I finished lunch?

Go to take a nap!

In this big world, there are probably a lot of kids my age who are tied to their naps by their parents in the way people tie cows to poles to keep them from running around. Neighbors also came to the house to curse loudly.

In fact, for an eight-year-old, a nap has no health value. When I was growing up, I had to admit that napping to an elderly person is more precious than gold. As we age, health declines. Working hard, headaches, blurred eyes, tired back, trembling hands, sleep at night are still not enough dose to successfully repair the damaged parts of the body. In the afternoon you have to take a nap for a while to be awake enough in the afternoon without hammering your arms or missing your feet when walking down the stairs.

But if you have lived in the world for only eight years, there is no good reason to take your nap seriously. For peoples that don't have the habit of napping, like Americans, for example, children find it much less meaningful to climb into bed after lunch.

When I was eight, of course I didn't have that kind of wisdom. But I also vaguely realized that when my father went to sleep I was forced to go to sleep, like a sheep awake and a shepherd could not rest assured to take a nap.

I was fidgeting beside him on the couch, sighing deeply as I thought of the punches my naughty friends were swinging out there.

- Don't stir! If you keep moving, you will not be able to sleep!

My dad said, and I listened to him. I don't move, but my eyes are still wide open.

- Don't open your eyes! Keep your eyes open and you won't be able to sleep!

My father said again, he was still lying neatly so I thought he could not see me open his eyes, he just guessed that. Unfortunately for me he guessed every time.

I close my eyes, narrow it, my eyelids are still hot, but I can't make my eyelids stop.

After a while, my father asked:

- Are you sleeping?

- Yes.

I replied, innocently and obediently, falling easily into my father's trap.

I lay like that, awake for a while, feel pity and melancholy, and then fall asleep when I don't feel good.

When I woke up, my life path was already laid out. I go from bed to bathroom to wash my face and then from the bathroom straight to my desk doing the boring job of studying or doing my homework.

Occasionally I was allowed to run to the front of the house to play with the neighbors' children but in front of my mother's supervising gaze (from a mysterious position behind the doorways that I could not discover forever), I just dare to play sly games like hopscotch or blindfolded goats, sort of games for girls who cry. (Later, more clever, I learned how to alas let my mother let me go to a neighbor's house, so for a long time I had the opportunity to do what I like).

Play for a while, I have to sit and recite the next song, the more I chant, the more I forget it, but still chant for my mother to peacefully cook rice.

From this moment on, my life was incredibly boring.

I lazily studied while waiting for the rice to cook. When the rice is cooked, I lazily ate it while waiting to continue studying.

Tiveo TV seldom touches my hand, it looks like a decoration. Always, I can only leave my desk when I have memorized all of the next day's work.

My father was the one who directly checked that. Unlike my mother, my father was so determined that I had a feeling he would get a huge boost if he went into the police, the courts or the tax department. He never stepped back from my tears, even though at that time I looked so sad that I was only a step away from death.

- I finished studying, Dad. - Usually I open my mouth first.

My father came over and looked at me with doubtful eyes:

- Are you sure?

- Yes, sure!

I replied quickly, and when my father began searching, I immediately denied my assertiveness completely by standing at the spot where I thought I could never forget it even if I hit the stump.

- Study again!

My dad said with a shrug and turned away with the newspaper still clutched in his hand, clearly wanting to send me the message that he was willing to wait for me even though he was forced to read through the last ad when he had nothing left to do. but also read.

By the way he swung the newspaper in his hand, I feared that his implications would go further: it seemed that if he needed it, he would start rereading the paper for a second time and more. Thinking so, I had to bury my head in the words that now to me were like mortal enemies, that mood made it harder for me to remember them mindlessly.

So you can also guess that when I have memorized the temporary, that is not very fluent, my body has been mercilessly knocked out by sleep, and often I dragged myself into bed with unsteady footsteps. , half awake and half asleep before my mother's sad eyes.

So, in short, the day is over.

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