9 am. November. This morning I officially declare the arrival of winter. Until then, my coat faux-vintage, my gloves and my hat refused to move the pretext that it is a cold day pass. But after 15 consecutive cold day, the truth, hard to swallow, was imposed.
9 am. I do not want to do anything apart drink my coffee and read the Lebanese newspaper online. But my colleague never fails to come to me and tell his nightmare the night before.
And today that is particularly unlucky. For me after she described her nightmare, in even the smallest details, she continued by telling me the vicissitudes of the Turkish soap opera that follows the last few months. I show superhuman powers of concentration to survive his dream, his arms forming a swim in the dark of night, a swim in the sky that it was unable to interpret. She asked my opinion, but frankly, I'm not dreams, and I have no degree in psychology. Then she tells me of rape, marriage, adultery and violence on screen ...
She speaks as if the characters existed in reality, as if the soap opera telling a life and as if the events of the Turkish soap opera really revolting. Me, I do not care. But I listen. Because my heart can not but be touched by this woman of fifty five who returned home every evening, being alone, watching TV (foreign as well) and eat exactly the same thing as yesterday.
I smile, I listen, I said, I react. Because I can only sympathize with this character. And deep in my heart, holding my words so that they remain silent and discreet, I never make a promise that I will never watch soap operas. Because I'll make sure that my life has me in his mistakes and contradictions in his weaknesses and false pretenses, in his dreams and his passions in his loves and disappointments in his promises and betrayals, is the more Turkish serials.
Nb: Please excuse the lack of punctuation. This message was written in a station. ©
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