Meus caros, eu não nasci com a língua inglesa nas veias, não é um cromossoma protuberante do meu ADN. Queria abordar este assunto na minha língua mãe, para que não haja mal-entendidos com a razão pela qual eu escrevo na língua de Shakespeare.
Naturalmente, todos nós temos talentos especiais ou inclinações para certas habilidades. Há quem cante, há quem pinte, há quem memorize todos os versos dos Lusíadas, há quem corra maratonas, há quem decifre os extenuantes códigos da linguagem que é a matemática. Independentemente do facto de constantemente basearmos todo o nosso ser e a nossa personalidade nestes dotes que, presumivelmente nos tornam únicos, seguimos sempre o exemplo do Homem no seu estado mais primitivo que aspira sempre ser o melhor e o maior, o suprassumo de qualquer coisa. Não pela fama ou pela aceitação dos seus pares, mas para provar que o seu lugar na terra é justificado e merecido.
Os ditos cujos talentos, usados recreacional ou profissionalmente, fazem parte da nossa personalidade sim, mas não nos definem como pessoas. Bem como, apesar de alguém ter um talento especial para lidar com crianças, não significa que serão melhores pais que qualquer outra pessoa, assim temos que por muito que alguém tenha uma facilidade acima do vulgar para se expressar numa certa língua, não significa que qualquer outra pessoa não a consiga aprender e desenvolver o mesmo instinto.
O que está por de trás do talento, meus amigos, é o prazer que ele nos trás. É fundamentalmente uma bênção, até ao dia de hoje ainda não conheci uma única pessoa que, não quisesse ter ou que não gostasse de um talento que tem. A razão pela qual eu penso que a minha capacidade de expressão na língua inglesa é única, ou acima do normal, é simplesmente porque eu aprecio fortemente a maior parte dos seus aspetos, e retenho um enorme prazer em aprender cada vez mais sobre ela.
She was well aware of how it wasn’t the perfect job, but at least it was simple. Sitting pretty and smile. She could be and do so much more, yet there seemed to be no better fate.
It had passed a long time since she was first brought to the boutique but she still recalls it, as clear as day. “I came in surrounded by a crowd of my own, but once it cleared and I saw it, a spotlight just for me, I couldn’t help but to feel special.” Little did she know, what had once made her feel so unique would turn into a gruesome show of frivolity, which she would consequently grow to despise. What was once a bright past is now a bleak present with an equally bleak, yet still uncertain future.
She understood now what in her joyful days she had once heard from a stranger passing by, “the ones who appear the happiest are the ones crying on the inside, my friend”. What a truth. After all, it did not matter how she might have been feeling on the inside, when it was more than clear in her job description that she was to sell a different, more pleasing reality. It did not matter that the stuff of her inside was darker than her coloured skin. It made no difference how quickly she had grown weary of her unescapable routine, of blinding sunlight and sheer darkness, day after day. Nothing seemed to comfort her, but dreams. Silly, unrealistic dreams, in her eyes, but they were enough to soften the blow of her somewhat, confined existence.
She dreamt of a day, when she would no longer be a prisoner of that spotlight. Much like a princess trapped in a high tower, guarded by a vicious beast. She dreamt the oldest of dreams, the one of freedom. “It’s funny how they change, really”, she would say, “and even funnier, is how their importance changes too”. When what, that once was all you believed in, becomes but a simple thought, then you know you have lost faith. There was a time, you see, when she would wish upon all that was sacred, for the very same reality she now lives in, only to realise shortly after, that it was all along a nightmare cloaked as a dream. That’s right, dreams do change and she was proof of it.
Faith might have been lost in her but what she truly yearned for, that she knew all too well. Whilst her younger-self desired attention for the sake of attention, her present-self desired attention for the sake of something more. She might not have known life like it is meant to be lived, but she knew of those who did. Many like her, who had followed glorious paths and left legacies big enough to make it to history. Many who came from nothing, but to whom fate had smiled upon. Oh, that she wished fate had smiled upon her. If not for glory but simply an opportunity. One that would take her far away from that ratchet boutique, away from objectifying eyes, away from that showcase she called home. An opportunity to travel the world, from mind to mind.
A pretty red beret, but she was more than that, and she could do so much more than that. All she wanted was to see the world from a higher ground, to be a shelter and care for someone who would care for her as well. She could inspire great ideas and go on marvellous adventures. Help others see themselves in a better light, a light she once had. Glory could come another day, for this is what her heart wanted beyond the shadow of a doubt.
The silky maroon inside might not have matched the joyous red of her soft outer fabric, and she may no longer have faith to guide her, but hope was not completely lost.
Because, well, let’s face it, how often do you find a hat with dreams?
“They've promised that dreams can come true - but forgot to mention that nightmares are dreams, too.”
My parents always told me that I could do or be anything I would ever want in this world, so long as I was the best at it. The trouble was, I knew I was never going to be the very best at anything so, evidently, I never really saw the point in trying.
By giving you only this piece of information, I reckon it gives out the impression that my parents were horrible people, who made their kids live up to impossible expectations. That is not the case. I both admire and respect my parents immensely, they are tolerant, intelligent and kind people. I know that all the talk about being the best comes out of worry for me, and with the goal to motivate me into doing something for myself. I know that all they want, is for me to be happy. I know that all they want, is all the best for me.
Parents, as I’ve come to understand, don’t want their kids to have to overcome the same struggles they did. It’s their job to help us grow, but the only place they can truly help us in, is in how to avoid the same mistakes they made. And if by chance the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, you are bound to face these same obstacles. This is when the instinctive mode kicks in, when they see a chance to fulfil their purpose in life, to help us be better than they ever were.
However, if we deny them their chance to do so, by whatever reason, fear sets in. And this fear of not being able to do their jobs, that’s what clouds their judgement. That’s what sets unrealistic standards. Standards these, in cases like mine, we as children feel as though we can never live up to. It creates a form of unintentional trauma, if you will.
See, the reason why I think I will never be the best at anything, is because I’m afraid that my very best isn’t “the best” material. What I’m really afraid is that by proving this fear real, I will disappoint my parents beyond the limit. The logic is this, if I fail, they fail. I am in constant procrastination of failure, of their failure, of me.
Alas my friends, a new topic to discuss, 100% biased for a change. The ERASMUS, may you know it or not, is an international exchange program for European college students. With yours truly amongst the mix, of course. Its prestige is immense, and the overall results of exchanged experiences practically speak for themselves. Basically, the core idea is that a student, should he choose so, is given the possibility to spend one or two semesters in a different, yet still European, country in which he would be exposed and emerged into a different language and culture, while continuing his studies. That is, in my opinion, to say the least, a very damned good idea.
However, and there is always a however, good ideas can only go so far. You see, there is theory and there is reality, two VERY different things. In reality, if the commitment to the cause, meaning, if the full participation from all the universities in the program on guiding these students, is not equal, then we have a problem. Organization should must be vital to these kinds of programs. No student is keen on volunteering themselves as the sacrificial lamb of the international higher education, “let’s see how it works” experiment.
Taking my personal experience into account, I’ll admit I faced some hardship. It wasn’t always easy to leap out of my comfort zone, but all in all, it was worth it. Truthfully, it made me grow in a way I never thought possible, and in more ways than one, if I must be completely honest. And while we’re still on the topic of honesty, I should say I came into this experience a bit unprepared. No one told me exactly how it would be, because, I’ve come to realize, everyone lives it differently. Everyone retains different aspects of their stay. But of course, there are common elements to all.
As if language wasn’t a big enough barrier, there are also a myriad of unspoken rules regarding the most basic day-to-day things, which in your country you probably wouldn’t even question, like “why do we breathe?” “Well I don’t know, it just comes with body!” Nonetheless, these kinds of obstacles can be surpassed (most of the times) with common sense and general knowledge. But still, an obstacle is an obstacle, let us not underestimate its power. Take this as an example, a bottle of water might not be heavy, but if you hold it with one arm for an entire day, I guarantee you, that arm will be pretty sore around bedtime.
Now add to all that the pressure a student is under, to find a half way decent place to live, learn how to cook and clean properly, pay rent, telephone and internet bills, open up a foreign bank account AND attempt to engage socially with people who, granted, are probably in the same situation but still, can make it challenging to do so. Some of us just don’t make friends that easily. Even though it’s clearly not the best quality to have in an international exchange program, any kind of exchange program, really.
And more so, add the pressure to succeed academically in a completely different university, it’s a whole new world, but less like Aladdin and more like when you were a freshmanand were always lost. Different teachers, different classes and different classmates who can either be very welcoming and overall nice, or be a bunch of snotty kids who reject everything that’s different, a.k.a you.
I do not remember volunteering for an astonishingly complicated experience, or to study in a university who doesn’t give the time of the day to their foreign students. Or for a sleeping arrangement the size of a thumbnail, not even to eat noodles every day because I could never cook anything else. But I also don’t remember volunteering for an experience of a life time, or for challenges that have made me stronger and wiser, or to have made long-life friends from all around the world. Not even to fall in love with another country, another city, enough to call it home. But you see, much like Katniss, by some reason, the odds were in my favour. May they be with you as well.
I’ll be blunt. There are a lot of things in life we all reflect about from time to time, be it in that moment when we are falling asleep, in a long relaxing shower, or most likely, in the bathroom. Don’t even bother trying to deny it, people. We all do it. I myself am more of a "moment right before I fall asleep but am way too comfortable to get up and write it down" kind of thinker. You see, I’ve been trying to connect the dots on this particular topic that has been bobbing about in my head for a long time, and the possible perspectives on the matter are pretty much countless, but here it goes. Who knows, maybe you guys can decide for yourselves.
Fear is only a means to an end, it should never be the other way around. There are many dangerous, life-threatening things in this world, thus making the purpose of fear, pretty clear. Fire burns and burning can kill you, so it doesn’t even matter how appealing it might be to touch it, because before you even now it, your brain will tap into its deepest corner, where Fear is clutching your nervous system like the new season Chanel Handbag, and it will stop your hands from even commencing any kind of movement (well, for most of the folks anyway). So, our brain, or our self-conscience, uses fear as a meansof self-preservation. Makes sense.
However, there are many kinds of fears. Keeping in mind that self-preservation fears, such as the one of burning to death, are clear and rational, unlike anything in this universe. Human nature included and highlighted.
There are, for instance, pointless fears, and I say pointless because there is nothing we can physically do about them. And all of those seem to be intimately connected to this big question we are all born with, “what are we here for?” which evidently is then followed by, “what about when we are no longer here?”
The way I see it, religions are built around the fear of death. This normally results on an answer to these big questions, and the blind following of a big sacred handbook of “what not to dos’” you know, to establish some order amongst us sheep. But the fear of dying and the fear of death are two very different things, my friends. Fear of dying, as I’ve explained, is rational, but the fear of death brings out a need in us, a need to justify a life that has a time frame, thus the need for religion. Just when you think you had it all figured out, suddenly comes the question, “for how long are we here for?” Panicsets in.
We have to understand something, time kills everyone and most things, so it seems only logical that the fear of time, of growing older, falls into the category of the fear of dying. Rationally speaking,living kills. While we can all see the clear contradiction of this premise, we all are, or have been at some point, in fact, afraid of living. That is what I, and many before me, call anirrational fear. You can't be afraid to live your life, come on! Instead of using fear as a means to an end, being the end to live, to be alive, to survive, fear itself is used as an end. And to live becomes simply a means, a hollow nothing, a mere shadow of what it truly should be. Am I the only one who can see how crazy that is?
My philosophy in life, you could say, is to power through with wit. I will endevour to post as periodically as I can, all the mind boggling thoughts, situations and ideas that come through this pretty little head of mine, in hopes that you can all help me diagnose what kind of mental problem I have. Hope you enjoy the ride!
