It’s been a while I’m thinking on putting some energy on writing these letters. Today, it is.
“Why do I need to suffer? Do I need even more struggling?” I don’t think I need to, but I don’t know if it is inevitable. My statement is: ‘unusual things happen to people to act in unusual ways, these things maybe the extraordinarily good or bad, but they are, for sure, uncommon, weird, unexpected’.
The fact that patterns exist in one’s life may be related to some sort of lesson one need to go through. I have understood this a while ago, but sometimes the lesson and its topic remain unclear. In addition, so many other things make much more sense than a lesson. I also think that there may be another interpretation for the needs and benefits of tough repeatable times, which may not be related to a lesson.
If I make a lot of effort, this pattern may be related to my intimacy with confrontation, my inner fire bomb towards injustice or towards anything that disagrees with my arrogant sense of logic and correctness. In an effort to be pedagogically affirmative, I’ll write in a soft way to myself:
Maybe I should not think that I do detain the ground truth on anything;
Maybe I should not think that logic is more relevant and more significant than opinion. I should also remind myself that logic is not taken into account by several human beings;
Maybe I should not think that my opinion, statements, or thoughts matter for most people, so I should shout my big mouth;
I should and want to be more positive. Being more positive seems to magically attract positive reactions, but magic is not something that happens 100% of the time.
I realized that I compromise my happiness (whatever this means) in order to keep my ideologies, critic/logic thought or whatever this is called. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m ok on having tough times if they are consequence of me being critic, logic, or following my values. You’re going to ask, where is your fault in all this, your contribution to this madness time. Sometimes I can not see it.
Sometimes, reading myself I think I became acid and a bit toxic, like some of the authors I admire. I guess the first time I wrote using this acid and perhaps sarcastic writing style was by the age of 14 yo and I was criticizing pop and mainstream culture, while the entire country was mourning the death of a nonsense comic pop band called “Mamonas Assassinas”.
Speaking on reading influences, I remember how I loved the free spirited mind of Neruda in his memories. At the time I read, I thought how awesome that free love, fluid home concept, and “don’t look back” attitude was. I also thought how much work I had to do, and I guess I can proudly say now “I confess I lived that”.
I think it is good for today.