Tô cansada - mas e daí?

Eu estou cansada. Cansada de ter que pegar transporte público lotado todo dia às seis e meia da manhã, apertada e desconfortável, pra ir assistir aula numa escola particular paga com suor porque as públicas não conseguem me passar uma boa base educacional. Eu estou cansada de ter medo de sair na rua à noite, porque a iluminação é falha e porque eu não consigo mais confiar nas pessoas a ponto de me sentir segura. 
Eu estou cansada de ler no jornal sobre assassinatos, eu estou muito, muito cansada de ver tanta opressão contra a mulher. Estou cansada de ver trotes violentos e desumanos, cansada de ver gente sendo hostilizada pelos próprios colegas de turma. Cansada de ver tantas coisas ruins acontecendo em escolas e universidades, que deveriam ser ambientes seguros e de tolerância.
Eu estou cansada de ficar indignada, porque a minha indignação é tanta e tão freqüente que me esgota. Cansada também de chorar, de chorar de horror e dor pelas pessoas desse país, pela Cláudia e o Amarildo e a moça estuprada no metrô. Eu simplesmente não aguento mais.
Meus olhos gostariam de se fechar e nunca mais ver o descaso com a educação, o desrespeito para com o povo, nunca mais ler sobre nenhum escândalo envolvendo uma grana preta de uma estatal; eles gostariam, mas não é assim que se faz mudança.
Eu estou, sim, muito cansada. E é vencendo o meu cansaço que eu escrevo esse texto, é vencendo meu cansaço que eu educo meus primos a serem humanos, a pensarem no que dizem. É vencendo esse cansaço que eu apelo a todos vocês que não fiquem parados, que ajam quando virem algo fora do lugar. Eu não posso fazer muito, mas posso exigir minha nota fiscal e não deixar furarem fila no banco. Posso denunciar, conversar, me informar, e defender quem precisa.

Porque pra ser forte, a gente tem que seguir em frente, mesmo cansado.

Comentários

Postar um comentário

Postagens mais visitadas deste blog

Rant on Youth

I wish they had told me how hard it was to be young. I wish I had learned in school about this sad phase of uncertainty that was going to taint me if I chose the road less traveled by. If I didn't get into uni like many of the others, if I breathed in and out instead of just rushing with life without even breathing as I would have done otherwise. I wish I knew how bitter uncertainty would taste so that I could be prepared, so that I could know it's a passing phase and all. I don't really believe my future is dark but I have no real proof I'm on the right track, and if I could only find an indication of that. I have no idea what to do with myself in order to be useful, to become a productive citizen of life and the world and not simply a mediocre working ant, I want to produce yes but not for the system, I won't work for capitalism or the government, I want to work for people for my community my elders my children things that I believe in, I want to serve happiness. 
Leia mais

On the sense of continuity

I must admit that I keep hoping for it all to be the same when I am back. Or actually, better. I keep imagining little flashes of routine, you frying something in the kitchen the smell of melting butter and the shhhhh it makes when hot, wearing a shirt that's too big for you while the sun comes in through a window. Me decorating our new apartment putting flowers everywhere and buying tablecloth and pillow covers, me worrying about all the little details like bed linen and the color of the cups. As you say, killing it with kindness, being a control freak in the sweetest way, saying you can buy all the kitchenware you want but only in this specific color, babe, otherwise it doesn't fit the plates.  I must admit that I make plans. Of all the beautiful things I could bring from all my trips, of sleeping and waking up by your side, even the fights we'd have over how many times your friend comes over for lunch doesn't she have a job if she keeps eating our food might as we
Leia mais

On Pigeons

I knew pigeons died in the same abstract way one knows, for example, that pedestrians die. You hear about it, you can rationalize the fact that it is true, they must sometimes die, considering the risks and all. But if you haven’t seen it happen, the idea is as thin as air. And if something is intangible, it’s as good as if it didn’t exist.                 That morning, the death of pigeons came into existence for me. Happily trotting along my usual path, I encountered a dead pigeon. Crushed would be a more accurate description. You could barely tell it was a pigeon, or that it had ever been one, if it weren’t for the wings. Two widespread white wings, plastered on the pavement, on top of the zebra crossing. There wasn’t blood, guts or any sort of gory evidence of its once-living nature; just two white wings and a gray mass where the body should have been. It seemed hopelessly poetic: wings that once crossed the skies plastered to the ground.                 The next day, I p
Leia mais