If there were no young people—their desires, their zest for life, their drive to change the world, and their belief in ideals—the world would look completely different. It would feel lifeless, almost deathlike
It is the breath of life Václav Havel spoke about—the force that brings change, that refuses to remain in a cage and wants to break out at any cost. It overcomes fear and the “staleness” of adults who have settled into their lives and truths, for whom it no longer feels worth changing anything or fighting for life.
Maybe they are too tired, and losses, worries, and disappointments have gradually suffocated their desire to be part of the whirlwind of life. Young people want to love and be loved, listen to music that makes them jump around like crazy, dance without sense or reason, laugh, shout, resist, fool around—and still believe that the world has something to offer them. Adults no longer believe it. They say love doesn’t exist, that it always ends the same way. But the young do not believe this. They love to the point of madness. They carry their beloved in their arms, gently touch them, and whisper in their ear that they will stay forever.
An adult says: you need money, it is foolish to be poor. And the young person goes to a second-hand shop, buys jeans for a few coins, goes for a beer in a shabby pub, and outside on the grass eats a simple roll. But they feel free and happy.
An adult says: you need to achieve something, to use the other person for your own goals. But the young lean into one another to find themselves in the other. They know that together they are stronger.
An adult says: you must not take risks. But the young throw themselves into life, and the only thing they build it on is risk—even if they might lose everything.
An adult says: be obedient, follow the orders of your superiors, and you will do well. But the young tear everything down. All authority figures are a joke to them, and even when they are afraid of them, they are still able to look them straight in the eye—directly and without compromise.
An adult looks at strangeness as something strange. They immediately form opinions, present them, and are certain about how things are supposed to be. The young know that they do not know. And so they take on one opinion here, another there. And in all that uncertainty, they are, in a strange way, deeply certain.
The young are full of longing. And in breath and longing there is life. When a person dies, they exhale for the last time. They do not wake up again. They are buried or cremated, and what remains in this world is perhaps only something unspeakable. A scent—or a trace—that they leave behind, which continues to work on in the future of the world.
But the young do not want to accept death. Even when everything pushes them down and tries to kill them, they draw all their weapons and refuse to surrender. They know that if they lose their breath, they will die. Even if their body lives on, the soul is buried once it no longer believes in anything, loves nothing, hopes for nothing, and sees no meaning in anything. And that is what the young refuse. With a stubbornness that fights on the edge of life and death, they refuse to give in—even as death slowly and patiently prepares their adulthood. But adulthood is only a fleeting illusion, because the breath of life is constantly present in the world. The world itself is young, carrying a youthful spirit and a longing soul. If it were not, the world would stop, the air would grow heavy, rot, and everything would begin to decay. But as long as the world has existed, breath has continued to flow, and everything moves and shifts in the spirit of eager and fresh youth. It brings new things, new challenges, and new, longing young people.
Erika Merjavá
