Carol



Já há um tempo que eu vinha evitando coisas. Evitando dores, evitando sonhos, até mesmo amores porque eu simplesmente não queria mais feridas.
Até que veio ela. Ela não sabe quem eu sou, mas já mudou a minha vida.
Pra começar ela nem minha era. Meu amor, minha amiga, ela não era "minha" nada - mas era dele. E ele era uma parte do meu dia, tinha toda uma rotina de conversas onde ela se pôs, onipresente. Ele foi falando, falando, uma foto, um desenho, eu tentei resistir mas ele transbordava admiração e essas coisas é preciso dividir; ela foi se tornando minha. 
Para desencargo de consciência, abri a página. "Deve ser boa", pensei, alguém que escreve e desenha não pode ser mero amador. Não era mesmo. E sutilmente fui me vendo no que estava escrito ali, meus olhos úmidos associando rostos às palavras que eram a minha história, mas -olha!- não eram minhas. E cada dor era a minha dor, cada diálogo os meus diálogos, como podem relacionamentos serem todos tão iguais?
A identificação se fez sonho. Sonhos parecidos com os dela, de bom dia sussurrado, crianças, uma vida compartilhada. Coisas nas quais eu já nem acreditava, sonhos que eu havia me proibido de sonhar.
Nesse momento, ela já me era muito cara. Já era mais que um nome, era um calorzinho no peito, era um ser que sobreviveu às mesmas dores que eu e que, como eu, caminha mesmo dolorida pelo mundo afora.
Carol, segue firme que se o destino quiser, um dia a gente toma um café. Se não, eu vou gostar de você mesmo sem nunca ter te visto.
Um abraço da mais nova fã.

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