When the world was smaller, and I was a little taller than I am right now, I found out about the existence of a house. A simple house, with one door. I knew that. I had heard people talking about it and about how they would listen in front of it. Bizarre and superhuman things were said to have happened there. But there was only one thing that struck me. How that house could heat the conversations between people. And later, I was to find out how it also affected their minds, since they had invented so many weird stories.
During those times, I found that there were people that did not believe the stories going about the town, concerning the house and the people inhabiting it. They used to delicately refuse to talk about such things. I used to think that they were just stronger and could not easily give in to curiosity. From time to time, now, such people come my way and help me understand the meaning of tolerance. I like to sit back and enjoy the spectacle of them being confronted with voices that talk louder and louder in order to put some sense into them. The calm with which they respond to every spiteful remark is a real source of inspiration. And yes, I like being constantly comforted that my faith in humans is not in vain.
Tolerance. A word. An ideal.
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