Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Would you please correct the mistakes in the first part of my text?
I am sitting in my orchard on a warm spring day. Above me is the white canopy of blossoms. Their sweet scent drifts down, wafts into my nostrils, and expands my lungs. The constant buzzing of insects blends with the chirping of sparrows. The grass under my feet is soft like a thick carpet. From a little fountain pours sparkling water. A bird lands on the brim of the basin, looks at me for a few seconds and, reassured that I am not a threat to it, drinks water and flies off. A group of children plays in the street. When they get bored with hitting a ball, playing hide-and-seek, and cops and robbers, they will come in my orchard. The boys will play with the water in fountain and the girls gather violets and make chains and bracelets.
My father is digging around the trees and spreading some manure around their roots. All trunks are whitewashed and they are now dazzling under the sun. Our neighbour Asim appears in his garden, calls out, and tells my father to come for coffee. Father leaves off digging, climbs the fence and soon I hear him and Asim chatting and laughing. When he returns, he will give me a plate full with pastries, which Asim’s wife Samira has baked in the morning. She knows that I have a sweet tooth and she is glad when she can give me her freshly baked cakes and pastries. When I return her plate, she will ask me how they tasted, and I will tell her they tasted delicious, just as everything she bakes and cooks.
I need nothing in this moment, neither a girl, money nor any expensive things. I’d like to prolong these hours into eternity. I am breathing this wonderful day; I let it permeate my being. My soul and mind are in a perfect harmony with nature and other creatures. Every breath fills me with these warm feelings and makes me grow and expand without any limits. I am free and light like a butterfly, which I see fluttering above the cluster of buttercups.
My osteoarthritis-ridden body wakes me with a jolt. The searing pain shoots through me like a bullet and makes me scream. I have to get up and walk to restore circulation in my stiff limbs. I peer though the venetian blinds and see another sunless wintry day. It makes me depressed and anxious. I am trying to return to my dream, but I know that whatever I do, I will find no relief. My orchard does not belong to me anymore. My father has been lying in his grave for decades, my neighbour Samira and her husband are both dead, and the children who used to play in my garden are scattered all over the world. They might be living in sterile suburbs with large shopping malls and treeless streets, and they remember their happy childhood and the orchard, which was their playground and gave them fruit of all kinds in abundance.
Here where I live nobody is going to give me a piece of a newly baked cake or treat me with coffee. But even if some kind soul would tell me to come and have a cup, I would politely decline. If I accepted I would be obliged to explain my unhappiness, my sorrow and my loss, and I know that the other person would never understand what I was talking about. She or he will probably think I am ungrateful, because we live in the land of milk and honey where it is almost a sin not to feel happy. People like I are a burden to society. We make others worried, poke their conscience, and remind them of death. We are party poopers and misfits, who should be locked up so that the successful can enjoy their lives to the full without being disturbed. Of course, every country aspires to have happy, highly motivated citizens, ready to work hard and pay their taxes without pondering about existence and meaning of life. Capitalism needs big spenders and not great thinkers.
TO BE CONTINUED
I am sitting in my orchard on a warm spring day. Above me is the white canopy of blossoms. Their sweet scent drifts down, wafts into my nostrils, and expands my lungs. The constant buzzing of insects blends with the chirping of sparrows. The grass under my feet is soft like a thick carpet. From a little fountain pours sparkling water. A bird lands on the brim of the basin, looks at me for a few seconds and, reassured that I am not a threat to it, drinks water and flies off. A group of children plays in the street. When they get bored with hitting a ball, playing hide-and-seek, and cops and robbers, they will come in my orchard. The boys will play with the water in fountain and the girls gather violets and make chains and bracelets.
My father is digging around the trees and spreading some manure around their roots. All trunks are whitewashed and they are now dazzling under the sun. Our neighbour Asim appears in his garden, calls out, and tells my father to come for coffee. Father leaves off digging, climbs the fence and soon I hear him and Asim chatting and laughing. When he returns, he will give me a plate full with pastries, which Asim’s wife Samira has baked in the morning. She knows that I have a sweet tooth and she is glad when she can give me her freshly baked cakes and pastries. When I return her plate, she will ask me how they tasted, and I will tell her they tasted delicious, just as everything she bakes and cooks.
I need nothing in this moment, neither a girl, money nor any expensive things. I’d like to prolong these hours into eternity. I am breathing this wonderful day; I let it permeate my being. My soul and mind are in a perfect harmony with nature and other creatures. Every breath fills me with these warm feelings and makes me grow and expand without any limits. I am free and light like a butterfly, which I see fluttering above the cluster of buttercups.
My osteoarthritis-ridden body wakes me with a jolt. The searing pain shoots through me like a bullet and makes me scream. I have to get up and walk to restore circulation in my stiff limbs. I peer though the venetian blinds and see another sunless wintry day. It makes me depressed and anxious. I am trying to return to my dream, but I know that whatever I do, I will find no relief. My orchard does not belong to me anymore. My father has been lying in his grave for decades, my neighbour Samira and her husband are both dead, and the children who used to play in my garden are scattered all over the world. They might be living in sterile suburbs with large shopping malls and treeless streets, and they remember their happy childhood and the orchard, which was their playground and gave them fruit of all kinds in abundance.
Here where I live nobody is going to give me a piece of a newly baked cake or treat me with coffee. But even if some kind soul would tell me to come and have a cup, I would politely decline. If I accepted I would be obliged to explain my unhappiness, my sorrow and my loss, and I know that the other person would never understand what I was talking about. She or he will probably think I am ungrateful, because we live in the land of milk and honey where it is almost a sin not to feel happy. People like I are a burden to society. We make others worried, poke their conscience, and remind them of death. We are party poopers and misfits, who should be locked up so that the successful can enjoy their lives to the full without being disturbed. Of course, every country aspires to have happy, highly motivated citizens, ready to work hard and pay their taxes without pondering about existence and meaning of life. Capitalism needs big spenders and not great thinkers.
TO BE CONTINUED
