Pesquisa personalizada

14 de novembro de 2004

:TEN (descubra as diferenças)

(Descobri este fragmento nas minhas arrumações. Um e-mail que enviei em Fevereiro de 2000 a um amigo. É curioso, acho que há aqui muita coisa que ainda se aplica hoje. O que pode ser lido das duas maneiras.)

All I ever wanted was to be noticed.

I was brought up to be quiet, silent, away from my father's eyes so as not to disturb his all-important work at home. Raised among adults who had no time for a young boy with an overreaching imagination, a young boy who wanted to be just like all the other boys his age. But it was not to be. I never felt I belonged anywhere; except maybe at home, probably just because I shared a name and a blood kin to these people.

I still don't.

I still want to believe that discipline and hard work will make up for the friendship you don't have. Because, to be fairly honest, love never came into it. Love was something I never saw at home. Love was something — is something I can't quite get around my mind. I don't know what it is. Never did. What I'm looking for is not love. It's comfort. It's acceptance. It's feeling I belong somewhere; feeling I have people who care for me, who call me, who want me to be with them once in a while, who write to me, who know my many faults and still want to be with me.

But I have a knack for wanting to be friends with people who have more important things in their lives than me. Like a family of their own. Like a love of their own.

That leaves me back where I started, needing professional psychological advice once every six weeks, feeling lonely and lovelorn. And rather staying at home nursing my invisible wounds when I could, should be out there forgetting theem.

But, whichever way you look at it, isn't the result the same? They never go away anyway. They'll just linger around the darkest recesses of your mind, waiting for the chance to come back and settle again. All you can hope for is a brief respite of the anguish. An evening, a weekend, a week. Because nothing ever lasts forever. It all ebbs and flows, like the waves on the beach.

All I ever do is send out messages in bottles of different shapes and sizes. Everything I do is a cry for help. A call to notice. And people do. For a while. Then they've seen it all and move away. On to the next freak show.

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