To be sincere…

The following reflection was written originally in Portuguese, in October 26th. Translation may contain flaws.

To be sincere, I can’t define what I feel. It is a lack that completes me. An emptiness that make me who I am. Usually when I touch it, talking to someone who juges himself more mature than me, only and exclusively for being older, I get the same answer. They tell meI am too young to think about it. That I should enjoy my teenage. I disagree. Maybe this reason, assumed in a so prepotent way, by people whose knees were already bent, and whose dreams were already crushed by the weight of responsibility, may be the only option facing the absence of the sensbility oasis, natural to innocence. Maybe that innocence is natural to all of us, and with time passing, are gradually put aside, at the same time our insecurities eat us alive form inside out. With that said, it’s not hard to notice, that the decisions that once seemed so simple, suddenly become that feared monster gazing at us from under the bed a few years ago. All of this makes me believe that I shouldn’t feel ashamed of missing this so untangible feeling, which I believe, I never got even close to feeling. So, yes! I feel proud of culting this provisional lonely love, spreading smiles haphazard, coloring this eternal ashes wednesday¹ that we so banally call life.

¹Ashes Wednesday: The last day of Carnaval in Brazil, usually resembling regret, shame, hangovers, and the prospection of a cloudy tomorrow.

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