History is a strange thing. Knowing and understanding what was before us is a quest, a passion, a lust for knowledge, and a dangerous undertaking; for once you decide to look back you may find things you may not like or be able to accept complacently, then what? for not all who read history, survive it.
Are we as people interested in our true history? I very much doubt it, for we are a nation obsessed with the future, with what's going to happen tomorrow, with speculations of what will be, than what was. Our discussions are forever centred on the next change of guards at the government, what would the world power do, how will we be in the next few years and so on. We desperately want to know where we are going, and are not particularly interested in where we started or where we are coming from, all of us want to get as far away from our personal past and construct a new, better, richer façade for the world to see, and in this urgency we end up losing ourselves.
History is actually a bequest, an inheritance, a gift. It is up to us how we value it and how we let it add and enrich our lives. I was reading almost the whole day today, this interesting story on the relevance of history and how it affects our present and tomorrow. And it got me thinking on how much we shirk our beginnings, how little we know about our past as a country (geographically) as a people (historically and culturally) and as individuals (the story behind our own families, our roots so to say besides a few perfunctory details.)
A day as uneventful as today energizes me no end. I love the slow pace of time, where time itself comes to a halt and gives the minutes of the day a little latitude to stretch a little longer than usual. I like the peace and quiet of a Sunday, and above all I like the slow pace of my own mind.
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