The True Profession

As coisas que se encontram de vez em quando! Estava bem escondidinho numa disquete, num documento dando pelo nome de Lisbon (vá-se lá saber porquê...) e foi escrito para aí à um ano atrás, quando a minha cabeça andava às avessas e a alma noutros lugares: Um pequeno excerto de um diário de um homenzito excêntrico mas contido, cuja escrita é o único refúgio que tem da realidade - trinta e oito páginas de conversas, nem sempre correspondidas, sem qualquer nexo ou sequência, com o único intuito de treinar a arte literária do diálogo... e também do monólogo. Peço desculpa pelo inglês forçado. Peço desculpa pela linguagem foleira! Isto só vai lá com muita prática o_O;; No entanto, consegue ser um pouco filosófico...

"What makes a man more silent than another? What kind of fear, doubt or mental state impel us to keep everything within? What shame do we possess, so capable of obliging us to hide our pain, happiness or sorrow from others? From the very ones who love us, always expecting for an opportunity to help us, to comfort us, to keep us safe – to show all the love they have. Is it the occupation we choose in life? In some cases, yes. I’m used too hide all sort of pitiful feelings. Secure, precise, intelligent… That’s how I must seem. Cold in some way; distant perhaps; but always ready to help. Eventualy, Men do die – and both my mind and body must be ready to face the cruel reality... every now and again. Sometimes I wonder if this capability of forgetting the pain of others so easily, will be enough to make me a worst man than I am now. But it’s all I have, to keep as professional as I need to be. Yes, I am devious and yes! I am secretive. And due to the facts of life and my one work it would be easy to find an excuse for my – less human, and more what I like to call animal – behaviour, if I did not know that none of it is true. Since childhood my life has been filled with this huge silence. My mind always working like a strange machine – a machine with no need for fuel – left in an empty room, unable to produce any kind of echo. A stone with no feelings, cold as ice, unable to speak what truly grows inside. How I remember the lonely sunny days in Spain, the slow passing of time in Dublin, the study night’s in Paris with no one at my side to talk to. I got so used to silence, it almost became a friend. I got so used of hiding and deceiving, it almost seems my true profession. "