quarta-feira, junho 19, 2019

For an idea of a memoir… at 36

It was November of 1982 and he was born, some time after while he’s Dad watched over him and his mother laid sleepy after a cesarean, he turned purple, breathless, struggling to make the machine that his body was to work and make the air flow. A demanding task for such a newborn. Rapidly he was taken to intensive care and machines took care of working the body for the following weeks (expensive treatment for which his family always made note of) until he, fighting to be part of this world, as a nurse later told mother, grew out of the need of machines and was able to finally breathe for himself. He was born again. Born finally…

From that moment on, he constructed himself out of fragility and sensibility, always assuming at the eyes and words of others, that that was a positive characteristic, something that made him a better person, a better being… a sensitive and caring child, a heart of glass, nurtured with extreme care and attention – and at the same time with a constant feeling of despair, of restlessness, an angst that would accompany him up until he was completely consumed by it.  

All his life, up until (t)here, was based on pursuing higher models of behavior, often (mostly) mirroring women, powerful, undefeatable, strong minded, like his mother; often also, later when an adult, to find out that them too were human beings bearing life themselves and – also – disturbed, but with the difference that despite all of that life wasn’t frightening for them because they would convince of mutable beliefs which would allow them to fit any situation. Obsessed minds in contrast with his own misadjusted obsession that life had to be made of fixed decisions, one after another, leading to the ultimate fulfillment.

(…)


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