All these things that I’ve done
I’ve been doing a lot of stuff, a lot of stuff you know nothing about. And it’s strange because I did a lot of these things because of you, because of your absence, because I no longer had our life together. I don’t feel the need anymore to tell you about them. I don’t feel the need to show you that I’ve been doing them. It just occurred to me that, in some sense, I had to lose you — and almost completely lose myself — to begin living.
I know I sound cliché, but I don’t know how long all of this will still feel new and unique once again, as if I’m the only person who has ever felt this way.
It’s crazy to think of you now because I really don’t want to talk to you, and I feel sort of relieved that you left (in Brazil we say “livramento,” and I think that’s beautiful lol), even if you put me through the most unbearable pain I’ve experienced so far. But it brought me back to life. It brought me back to the core passions I’ve always had and cherished, and that I was too busy loving you to cherish enough, as I should have.
Well, that’s something I know won’t happen again. But won’t it? I can’t really say.
The point is that I’m happier now than I was during the last months when we were still a whole.
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I’m reading this book now that makes me feel like writing again. You know I have this ridiculous ego, and I believe I could do it too, in some sense that isn’t even clear to me yet. More than that, it makes me feel like it’s worth writing my feelings down for others to read, and I would be more than glad to be someone’s reading choice when they’re taking a dump.
Why am I writing in English, you may ask? But what the fuck do I know about the human brain? People often ask me what language I think or dream in, and I always say it depends, because it does. I can’t control my thoughts, just like anyone else. God knew that if I could, damn, I would be fucking unstoppable.
It’s good to reconnect deeply with the things I love and to allow myself to live so many other experiences I couldn’t have imagined living if we were still together. Not because of you specifically, but because of the life we were living. I guess we should have made more sense of all that, but you were already halfway out and couldn’t, and I was way too deep in it to even see it.
I don’t feel like I’m making myself sound happier, even though I said I am. My writing is always a downer. Must be all that fucking Dostoyevsky I read. I honestly believe, though, that this feels like the most truthful I’ve ever been. As if the weight of my words adds a layer of brutal honesty.
Polentino has been calling me to play for at least half an hour now. I’ve been back from abroad for less than 24 hours, and he’s still in his super-attached mode. It’ll probably expire tomorrow morning, so I guess I should get going.
I may come back and make more sense of it all, or I won’t. I’ve only recently learned that most things aren’t meant to make sense anyway.
