It’s
hard for me not to think about the time I’ve been abroad whenever I try
to write down my feelings and ideas, because that’s basically the most
important thing going on in my life. 81 days now. Trying to explain how
fast it’s going is pointless and hurtful, because I’ve caught myself
thinking of how I could just stay here and never return to the mess that
my homeland has become a lot more times than I wish I had.
Anyone
in this same position of not only leaving home, but moving to a whole
different country, will definitely waste a lot of time complaining about
all the comfortable things one has lost when deciding to go on this
life-changing jouney. Luckily, I’m not anyone to complain on how I miss
my car and my warm weather without speaking first of all these new
things I’ve figured out about myself. That’s why I think that most of us
eventually end up with some huge text posted online. Internet has made
it easier for anyone to catch up with our latest experience. That’s
phenomenal. We just love to tell the world how we are.
I
ocasionally end up talking a little bit about my experiences here on my
snapchat, not just because it’s a fantastic social network (yes, it is)
because of how quick you share things and they disappear forever
shortly after, but also because I know that there’s a lot of people who
care about me and that expect me to tell them what’s going on with my
life on a daily basis (hi, mom), and snapchat just makes it a lot
easier, closer, more human. I could actually be doing this on snapchat,
recording my words and the weird yet funny faces that I effortlessly do.
But
this is a reflection about writing. And writing demands words to be
typed, read, felt together. God bless those who made it possible for
blind people to read with their own hands. The inner feeling we get with
our eyes is surprisingly comparable.
I’ve
tried to understand what writing actually means to me a bunch of times. I
believe that I may have finally and inadvertently assembled a rather
satisfactory answer to that question, while renewing this blog’s layout.
“Escrever é meu mapa pessoal do tesouro de ser feliz” (“Writing is my
personal map of the treasure of being happy”), and I am the land to be
explored.
The
truth behind that may be the key to this wonderful self-awareness I have
developed over the past years. As complicated as I may be, as
uncontrollable, unstable and emotional as I may get, I would have never
been able to acknowledge that through any other way than literature. I
may have abandone my tales and poems for a while, but I still see myself
in each one of the characters I created, and I ocasionally think of
them and wonder how their lives would be now if they were alive
somewhere else than inside my head. But, still, I can’t help but write
all the time.
I
haven’t been exposing myself lately in a desperate attempt to protect
my own heart from my own stupidity, but I must say that I am most
certainly tired of covering my feelings up. I have too many, and they
just don’t fit inside this body of mine (even with all the weight I’ve
gained since moving out). I live in a constant overflow of feelings.
Even if my words never reach the paper, never get typed, I write all the
time inside of my head, as if my gray matter demanded imaginary words
written on its surface. My passion for the Arts and the Sciences may be
high, but I am a writer, after all. I may be writing at you right now,
actually, on the lines of this beautiful colorful iris of yours that
I’ve been staring at for so long.
A
picture may be worth a thousand words, but I only know of music
speaking whenever words fail. But that’s something for a different
moment. For now, words are enough for me.
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