unimpressedperson

[unimpressedperson]

TW: Bulimia

It's not a diary entry, I'd say it's more an outflow of thoughts I do not want to discuss in Twitter.

I hate relapsing. One of the worst parts (besides the throat bleeding, softening of teeth and gastritis) is the pain I feel in my ribs and belly muscles. The force used to induce the vomit is such, that it all aches afterwards.

Also, I feel that body dismorphia becomes more detached from reality during crisis.

Having an eating disorder is a bad fate to anyone, wish I could go back in time and stop my younger self before it all became an habit.

We're recovering, but what a rough path...

#eating disorder #recovery #rough night #belly ache

[unimpressedperson]

Miljenko Stančić

[unimpressedperson]

Diary Entry: Motherhood

TW: Eating disorders, abuse and trauma.

I cannot remember when the thought of possibly becoming a mom began to haunt me.

I never paid an actual mind footnote to motherhood when I was a child. I played with dolls and they all had a partner and children, but also a career and adventures. What my Barbie, Suzy and Lily dolls experienced, the narrative at every playpen and new story, were never an extension of my own dreams and expectations. Although my imagination was quite vivid (a situation which I, nowadays, attach to neurodivergence and synesthesia), nothing actually expressed what I wanted for myself.

If I am to take a guess, I would say the concept of motherhood first creeped in once my sexual life began and I realised how fearful I felt of getting pregnant.

At first I thought that fear was something related to age, since I first had sex at such an early age. However, I'm no longer a teenager, I have a good job, an academic life, more experience. I feel ready to fight patriarchy everyday, but raising a child still frightens me.

I brought this topic up a few times during therapy and the therapist always said the same: the relationship with my parents might be a possible answer.

I am afraid I would represent to my child the same role my parents played on my life.

Growing up with very little interaction along other children (I used to live in a dangerous neighbourhood), I've never fully understood social interactions and boundaries, I was always trying to fit in through imitation, mirroring another child's behaviour in order to somehow grasp on what they were doing. Everybody seemed to have freedom to play with other children living nearby them, and I never had such opportunity, everyone spoke the same language and I was an outcast, even trying my best to be part of groups.

As a straight result, my parents would censor me whenever I began to wish for more freedom. They would prohibit me of playing with children that were neighbours, only allowing me to stay in our backyard and limiting my interactions to children who they allowed to enter our house.

I had cousins that would visit us from time to time, but it was never the same.

The limits my parents imposed to a neurodivergent child seemed pretty clear: everything we do not endorse is condemned, therefore will result in punishment without your comic books, access to internet or certain toys. I was very literal, so I took their words by the heart.

The thread between what they allowed never seemed to ease with time and I felt imprisoned by their walls and towers.

The result was a gloomy and anxious child, that resorted to online communities after midnight. I had access to content someone 9 or 10 years old should never watch or read, I was groomed from an early age by people that took advantage of the fact I was prohibited of experiencing the real world, so their words were to closest to freedom I could get.

I learned how to lie in order to maintain a sort of freedom I knew my parents would not approve (rightfully), but I also experienced censorship and prohibitions for far less damaging situations, how would it be any different? Damned if you, damned if you don't.

When you're a child that takes everything literally, then right and wrong are separated by a sheer layer of details. I always showed small difficulties in detriment of social interactions, repetitive actions, hyperfocus and social anxiety, so I needed comprehension, I needed attention and understanding of my boundaries, I needed psychological support to help me.

Of course, this unlimited access to a world of informations I had as a child also presented me to stuff that helped develop my own personality and interests. Nonetheless, I had to reach a maturity level at 11, most people only understand at 18.

The sexual awakening and loss of my virginity happened early. I could write a whole Diary Entry on how it affected (negatively) my self esteem, how it's not right at all. The point now is that my parents did not know I skipped class and went to my boyfriend's house. They do not know that after I broke up with that boy (who was the same age as me), I had older partners. It's illegal. Someone 14, 15, 16 and 17 cannot consent to anything.

I went through the turmoil of teenagehood without telling my parents about bulimia, bullying, older men hitting on me, about not fitting in, about being part of the LGBT community, anxiety and depression and the urge to hurt myself. I had to cope with trauma and heal myself, re-collecting piece by piece of my mind, heart and dignity.

I did not trust my parents, because I was always afraid of their reaction. They never educated me, they never gave me the tools to grow up in a healthy pace, they tried to overprotect me to an unhealthy extent. They did not nurture a trustworthy relationship with me, so I decided to separate them from my personal life altogether.

Even nowadays, at 23 years old, nothing will be known unless they HAVE to know.

After so many years I came across the "narcissistic parents" expression and I actually cried whilst reading studies about it.

In a very short explanation of a serious concept that should be studied and discussed with professionals, narcissistic parents understand the birth of their child and their development as an extension of their own personality, so your accomplishments are theirs, your mistakes and errors also reflect on their status. Narcissistic parents become overprotective of their children, they might love them, but their actions (if seen in a negative perspective) automatically become an attack against themselves. They're always the main victim of your identity independence.

You do not respect the ones responsible for raising you, because they never respected your limits and emotions. You fear them. You deal with them until gathering enough courage to leave.

The therapist was right all along. I do not want to condemn more children to deal with narcissistic parents.

I know, the chances of reproducing such behaviours become narrow once you acknowledge their results and learn from it. But they're never extinguished.

If I were to have a child, I would like them to respect and love me, trust me to help them grow up and develop on their own pace. Give them tools to learn and nurture their interests. Protect them from the world without forbidding them of acknowledging it. I would like them to feel comfortable around me to open up about their struggles, because they would feel safe with me. I would like to have with them a thriving relationship by showing a positive and free environment.

I never had any of this at home and I'm afraid I would be no better than my parents.

I do not fear motherhood, I fear what I would do once I embrace it.

#motherhood #narcissistic parents #narcissistic mother #trauma #diary entry #growing up #psychology

[unimpressedperson]

“The poetizing philosopher, the philosophizing poet, is a prophet. A didactic poem should be and tends to become prophetic.”

— Friedrich Schlegel, Athenaeum Fragments

[unimpressedperson]

Diary Entry: The intricate reasons behind relapsing

TRIGGER WARNING: DISCUSSION OF ED.

I was 11 years old when I had my first contact with bulimia. Beforehand, I remember being complexed with weight, height, shape of my face and teeth, the spectacles I had to use and how I didn't feel like fitting anywhere.

Growing up I was constantly attacked with comments on every single of those aspects. This took its toll on my self esteem and capacity to love myself. Although 11 years have passed and now, at 22 years old, I have a different mindset compared to the one I had as a child, sometimes I still feel the insecurity creeping into my brain.

The first time I relapsed - which means I began to recover but couldn't keep it - I was 16 years old and no longer felt comfortable hurting myself from within my guts to my muscles and skin.

When bulimia and eating disorders became part of my life, I thought they were something exclusively related to teenagehood, that once I turned into an adult, with errands and demands of someone busy, they would disappear. Little did I know that certain habits and struggles can follow us up from age to age.

I went through crisis and had to recover from relapsing every single year. Something always makes me feel ill, there is always a picture or memory that brings the monster to the surface.

Whenever I login here - on Tumblr- or Twitter, I can see the popularity of the eating disorder subject arising again, which makes me think that only one thing isn't said to teenagers and adults going through the difficulties of eating disorders:

The treatment is life-long.

Once you get down the spiral, the only way up again is trying to make it spin upwards. However, just like hiking up a hill: tripping down is always a possibility.

Nevertheless, it doesn't mean you cannot keep on hiking and trying to reach the top. You can stay put at the bottom of the mountain again, or keep on walking and trying to find ways of escaping the rocks, roots and puddles that would knock you down one more time.

You'll always be faced with difficulties, but allowing yourself to give up will always look like a fork on the road.

Recovering is a rough path and tripping on rocks along the way is common.

I grow old and always find new ways of improving. It's a work in progress, a constant progress.

If you're struggling with eating disorders, anxiety, or anything else, don't hesitate in calling for help. You don't deserve to live a life afraid of eating, gaining weight or not fitting into standards.

Not wanting to sound cheesy - but already promising it will be very namby-pamby -, you cannot be standard if you're born deluxe, one of a kind.

You deserve to live happily and healthily, and seeking for recover is always the best first step.

Kudos for me after staying strong. Kudos for you to thinking of putting yourself first.

#possibly triggering #eating disorder #recovering #recover #recovery #bulimia nervosa #tw ed relapse #Diary Entry #journaling

[unimpressedperson]

MONSTA X (몬스타엑스)

╰ ALL IN (2017)

#i remember watching this MV and knowing I would be invested in Monsta X eventually #Monsta x

[unimpressedperson]

Diary Entry: The concept of resting

First of all, I've been clinically ill because of extreme exhaustion at least twice between 2019 and 2021. So, I cannot proudly announce that I have a healthy relationship with work, duties, etc. Actually, this one would be the biggest lie ever told by someone with a straight face.

Also, something else I'm slowly learning: how to rest.

As mentioned a few diary entries before, I'm insomniac and sleep less than can be considered enough - or vigorous. Basically, if I were to live in a reality where my physical integrity and security relied solely on how well I respected my circadian body rhythm, then I'd be one of the first to decease.

Not trying to be humorous about a serious subject, but I'd last less than warm water thrown under a snow storm.

So for the past months, I've been trying to decode how I function and the best ways to promote a stout resting pace. It's no longer a luxury to understand, but a requirement in order to improve my daily life.

I tested many ways of resting, including a bunch of different activities I don't feel keen to maintain or embrace.

A few activities I'm comfortable doing includes pilates, painting, sculpting with clay, diving deep into the philosophy behind different ways of gardening, cooking and improving my seitan preparing techniques.

Also, I learned that some genres of dance do not please me or help me at all, learning about stuff - directly or indirectly - related to work makes me even more exhausted, traditional meditating do not bring any inner peace of mind, crochet is also very stressing.

In that marathon in order to understand myself better and find ways of relaxing, I got to a point where I thought sleeping - yes, the most difficult of the topics - a lot, for over 10 hours, could help me with resting. Nonetheless, I was painfully wrong.

Sleeping, as ironic as it may sound, wasn't the answer after all.

The point for this diary entry is: there are different concepts behind the word "resting", as in relaxing, letting some of the accumulated steam off.

I guess in such an hectic reality, we've been convinced running nonstop and reaching exhaustion is the key for success. As working humans, rest and proper sleep are considered rewards, not a right guarantee for the body and soul.

The touch with love and affection towards our own humanity is being lost. We're aiming to become the kind of humans that cannot pass our own Turing test.

There are different concepts of resting and we should take some time every other day in order to embrace it. Physically, mentally, spiritually, socially, emotionally, sensory and creatively, they need different approaches.

I tried sleeping and doing nothing for weekends, slept over 15 hours for two days in a row and didn't feel any more recomposed than before, if something, deep down I was with the sensation of time lost - which was not the case, though, I needed that kind of rest and felt less burnout.

However, I learned that for the past year I didn't allow myself to exercise my creative muscles, not enough to feel it bubbling inside me. It affected my productivity and mental health.

Exercising different abilities or maintaining alive different hobbies can be a type of resting. Reading, meditating, creating or just staying still in order to absorb the ambience surrounding you.

You can only observe how filled with water the jar actually is when it's completely still, but the filling it up requires movement. That's how resting works for human beings.

Even if we live in a burnout society, it doesn't mean we cannot slowly change it for ourselves.

We are not machines, therefore we cannot work like machines, receive commands and restart once we jammed with information.

Also, feeding your mental health with a false and toxic "positive mindset" might make more damage than good, because most of the coaching methods of improving productivity and pushing forward exhausted bodies with restless souls, they are not created to open your eyes to the best aspects of being alive.

I'm sick and tired of listening that I should feel more gratitude, to relax more - but without letting go of the 30 different errands draining off my energy and making me work overtime, because it might backfire.

In the end, this burnout society - as described by Byung-chul Han - can be ruthless and hurtful, condemning of those tired of being tied to it, but the best method to detangle yourself from this mess is learning more about yourself.

Self-knowledge brings enlightenment and enriches the experience of being alive, even among the chaos.

Knowing how to rest is a nice and healing beginning.

#the burnout society #burnout #exhausted #byung chul han #philosophy #resting #stoicism #diary entry #online journals #online diary #existence

[unimpressedperson]

Diary Entry: Comfort Zoning

I'd like to begin this entry stating that my psychiatric diagnosis is social anxiety and all of my MBTi and personality tests shows similar results: someone highly introverted, but with tendencies to talk more comfortably about topics I'm familiarising or have knowledge on.

Beware of the facts, I love my comfort zone and social bubbles more than any hyperbolic metaphor could possibly express.

I enjoy spending time on my own, reading, writing, drinking coffee or tchai, snuggling on warm blankets, surrounded by the sound of songs I'm into (right now I could listen to Shostakovich, Monsta X, and Woody Guthrie 24/7). Visiting museums, bookshops, libraries, thrift shops, coffee shops or just sightseeing - alone. The silence is my favourite soundtrack to sleepless nights. Learning recipes for myself before trying to prepare it for anybody else is therapeutic. The smell of scented candles, watercolour and clay fulfills every bit of exhaustion within myself.

In simple terms: crowded places brings me anxiety, having companion everyday makes me anxious, hosting anything makes me insomniac for weeks, excess of physical touch can irritate me, noisy environments (artificial sounds, like noise pollution and blabbering) makes me so uncomfortable I can't function or think properly.

I am very pleased by solitude and attached to my comfort zone. It took me long enough to understand the pace I function to the fullest and all the triggers that can break me.

However adulthood taught me that my comfort zone can be very limiting and impossible to keep 100% of the time. I had to learn how to live outside that bubble and become more outgoing in order to not get outdated.

I needed to acquire more social knowledge than I intended before. I had to live and speak to people with thoughts and ideals crossing every boundary of my social bubbles.

Nothing mentioned at the previous paragraph pleased me. Sometimes it wears me out to a point I need to remember life is more than terrible and tiring moments.

I have lived for 22 years trying to fit. Learning how to addapt made me miserable without taking into account my own will.

Agreeing with Adele (henceforth the genius track "I Drink Wine" from her album "30") makes me feel mature.

I don't know a single person that lives a balanced life and is happy. Balance might be a symbol of equality in all aspects of living, but not necessarily mean happiness. Different phases require different approaches.

Equity is different from equality.

Right now I need more rest and self-knowledge than "youthful fun" and "contact with people my age". I feel like my soul is begging me to "comfort zone in" myself.

The point is: living a life in a comfort zone and solely stuck to a social bubble can affect us in a negative way. In order to live in society, it's a requirement to interact with distinct individuals that would never mingle or integrate your social networking in a common day.

Also, having a comfort zone is a escape from reality. Living is hard enough having art, culture and entertainment to keep us as sane as possible.

I spent the last 3 weeks living hectic days, interacting with more people, going out to places with new faces and names, trying to work and still have fun. I allowed them to fumble themselves into my comfort zone, visiting museums, taking the subway, having meals in places I cherish.

Now I need some time alone inside that bubble. Listening to what enjoy, reading books and visiting expositions by myself. Having coffees and preparing seitan just for me.

I love my time alone just as much as I fear loneliness. But it's a topic to another Diary Entry.

Whatever happens, happens.

#Diary Entry #loneliness #comfort zone #social bubble #monsta x #dmitri shostakovitch #introverted #insomniac #introversion #existentialism #existential boredom #cowboy bebop

[unimpressedperson]

"For those who were born afraid of loving, being loved, not deserving of love, or having to fight for it. I love you."

- Até que o Universo Nos Distorça (C.B.J.)

#Até que o Universo nos Distorça #C.B.J. #Editora Violeta #love story #soulmate #photograph #book #literature #literatura #livro #alma gêmea #brazilian #quote

[unimpressedperson]

“…And your very flesh shall be a great poem.”

— Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

[unimpressedperson]

The Coast of Spain at Salabrena, 1832, Eugène Delacroix

Medium: watercolor

[unimpressedperson]

The logical answer to a good week

Certain pieces don't belong in heaven or in hell

They don't lurk in a certain extreme

It's even hard to tell

But certain people, they don't dream

It takes a lot of imagination and long for a living

In order to think of something that does not already exist.

Then you wish upon the stars for new beginnings

Because after a bound of bliss

There's the darkness reflecting within

To every light shining

There's the shadow waiting

To every happiness

There's a bit of sadness seeking

A way out.

And once again, I don't fit

I feel like I could belong

But not here

I don't understand the jokes

And the inbetweens

What's said out loud and everything you do not mean

I guess I don't mean much

Just talk a lot

In parallel, not enough.

The hollowness takes my breathe away

Like in space

Everything heard is just silence in a bright end escape

I feel so empty and yet filled with restraints

All the words I think of

They can't explode in the oxygen-less infinitesimal world of mazes.

And I'm lonely

A misfit

Someone lost in thoughts

That cannot be said

I did think it come a long way

It's not lonesome at the top

But it feels like there's no one crossing this path

I'm talking to myself all over again.

#poem #unimpressed poetry #loneliness #misfit #i might have relapsed #lonely

[unimpressedperson]

Diary Entry: Insomniac

It's currently a quarter of hour to 4 a.m and I don't feel like sleeping.

Nothing out of ordinary. Sliding under the blankets and driving off to a relieving slumber have been a struggle for years now. I cannot turn off my brain and relax, close my eyes and sleep properly. I wish I could, but never felt easy to just... sleep.

When I was a child, I felt excited to sleep because the dreams were always vivid, astounding, groundbreaking, mind blowing and colourful. Sometimes I wished so hard to just lay down and rest, that I would find it difficult.

Meanwhile, after a certain age sleeping began feeling like an obligation and failing at doing it made me depressed. So useless to the point something biologically programmed seemed difficult.

Nowadays, boredom and worries are the ones keeping me fully awake 'til past midnight. Even when I have to wake up at the early dawning hours.

When I finally get to sleep, it's never recharging and relaxing. It's agitated, incomplete, filled with gaps. I get more exhausted by forcing myself to rest than properly working.

Well, not literally. Both actions are weary and take their toll at me.

One of the first therapists I ever got to speak to looked at me and said, wisely, that most genius were insomniac as well, but intelligent people paid enough attention to their sleeping schedule just as much as they did to work related thoughts.

I guess that's how she tried to tell that crazy equal genius, but not all type of geniality should be followed.

I'm highly mediocre and couldn't be more mediocre than that, but at least I slept just as little as Nietzsche.

And everytime I mention just how difficult it feels to just wander off to a good night of sleep, someone says it's a characteristic of intelligence. I read and write whilst everyone else is recharging. It should be given a round of applauses to whoever convinced a whole generation of "post-modern yuppies" facing crisis after crisis, that their own well-being is sabotaging their success.

It's unhealthy to promote deathly routines, not considering the regards of someone's background and reality.

Whether you're sleeping or awake, there's always someone doing the exact opposite somewhere else in the World, because when midnight falls the sunlight peaks at the other side of the globe. So why bother ruining your own health in order to live impossible routines?

Although I'm aware of all those things, I still can't shut my brain off for long enough.

What makes someone intelligent is information. What makes someone wise is introspection and self-knowledge. Understanding your own circadian cycle and respecting it.

Don't bother following the daily life of a person you look up to, because your geniality might be discovered on the right time for yourself.

In English, someone that feels incapable of sleeping is called "insomniac", but I'm Brazillian, so I learned how to speak this saxon idiom as a second idiom and everytime that word was written somewhere, I would automatically read "insomaniac", because after a few days without a proper night of fulfilling sleep, everything slightly exciting are overwhelmed and becomes mania. I get pumped and then deeply upset about the smallest things.

After mania it all becomes despair. Nothing feels right and everything feels kilometers away of being accomplished.

There is no lesson to be taught here, other than sleeping and resting is important for a healthy life.

A life I daydream of living, because I'm an insomaniac after all.

#psychology #Nietzsche #insomnia #Insomniac #insomaniac #sleep

[unimpressedperson]

[unimpressedperson]

“Though the flame of liberty may sometimes cease to shine, the coal can never expire.”

— Thomas Paine, The American Crisis

[unimpressedperson]

Diary Entry: Synesthesia

Once I heard someone saying that there's nothing left to discover about yourself after teenagerhood. The person eventually explained that every new development on yourself and epiphany towards your personality, hardly can be considered something new, it's a realisation of traits you felt the existence before but could never put into words.

I disagree. Living is a constant developmental phase. Unlike butterflies, which the early years are larvae phase, then cocoon and fully formed butterfly. Humans work very differently, since our growth is most definitely unclear, ambiguous and very confusing, it's unfair to say there is nothing new to be found within your own mind, soul and body.

There are characteristics we ensue later in existence. Regardless of environment or if it comes to life after transitioning from a different phase, it's eschatological to assume we will never find anything else amusing to understand about ourselves.

However, realisations are indeed a coming of age situation.

I've always experienced sensations, colours and the world as a whole with a different magnifying glass. It probably got more evident whilst growing up distant of other kids, cloistered to my own backyard and imagination, but sentiments always felt confusing, making believe always seemed more vivid than reality, tasting food and listening to music always reminded me of colours, and spending time alone always recharged me.

Later on I found out most of my quirks were result of an untreated Social Anxiety Disorder, but some of those were simply synesthesia.

Every single human being experiences a different type of synesthesia. Sometimes it's stronger for the smell or the touch, possibly the taste. Synesthesia is related to the mixture of sensations. So if you can taste something just by smelling it, it's synesthesia. If you can perfectly picture a dish by the taste, it's synesthesia.

Synesthesia is universal. It's a form of feeling and enduring the flaws and the beauties of this world we live in.

During quarantine, I spent a long period of time uncommunicating. It allowed me to acquire perspective and think about the struggles and problems that have been tearing me down for longer than I can remember. This moment also made me realise that I wasn't hallucinating when closing my eyes with earphones on, music blasting into my eardrums and colours popping around, dancing in different patterns.

It's amazing and I always assumed it was result of extreme exhaustion.

The synesthesia has always been a huge part of my personality and perception of the World. I always felt an special connection with art and music, because it fulfills me and embraces this little detail I never paid enough attention, although it never abandoned me.

The brain of someone acknowledging synesthesia is constantly tuned to the "Fantasia station", where sounds dance with colours.

Watermelon tastes red. Kebab tastes green. Taco tastes yellow. Lemon juice tastes blue. Mint chocolate ice cream tastes green. Matcha tastes brown. And that's how I always classified food.

At some point, when I was way too deep into an eating disorder, everything edible used to remind me of yellow, but not the same shade of yellow as tacos, something more dangerous. Toxic yellow.

The point is... it's never too late to develop a new characteristic or ability, to find a new peculiarity about your own personality.

Don't stop yourself from knowing yourself a little better everyday, just because you feel too old to be astounded.

The growth is ongoing, just like music and synesthesia.

#Synesthesia #Diary Entry #Fantasia #Music #Colors #Taste #Growth #Development #Existence

[unimpressedperson]

E se o luar cegasse as estrelas?

"Nossas palavras de despedida são infinitas, um relógio com pêndulo quebrado." - 佐井好子 (Yoshiko Sai)

Nuvens densas cobriam o céu, mas se mexiam numa dança que só elas sabiam o ritmo e ouviam o som. Talvez a música fosse o vento resfolegando entre as árvores, tocando as folhas como tambores e tamborins, fazendo dos frutos os chocalhos. Uma sessão do jornal passado passeava pelo asfalto, como se estivesse ouvindo a canção também e enroscasse uma de suas pontas no banco, tomando-o para esse tango.

Os elementos solitários da noite pareciam festejar silenciosamente, aquele era o momento deles e Estela se sentia uma intrusa por observar tudo pela janela de seu apartamento. Ela não entendia a melodia do vento e o tempo das árvores. Não ouvia a música fazendo o jornal dançar tão suavemente abraçado ao banco da praça. Até mesmo os postes piscavam em sequência. Somente Estela estava alheia ao doce ritmo traçado pela natureza.

Ela se sentia fadada a ficar sozinha, afinal, se não conseguia entender os sinais de interesse humano, tampouco seria capaz de absorver tudo que a natureza tinha a dizer.

As estrelas apareceram como se fossem as atrações principais do show. O vento passou a soprar mais lentamente, o farfalhar das folhas se tornava gradativamente mais baixo e os grilos começaram sua sinfonia de estridulação. O jornal soltou do banco e repousou ao lado do bueiro. Era o momento das estrelas, mas não da Estela.

A moça bufou exaurida e fechou as venezianas articuladas lentamente. O quarto estava escuro sem a luz dos postes e a cama parecia infinita no breu. Estela e o cômodo eram uma unidade, pois o breu unia tudo em sua graça. Se fechasse os olhos e deitasse provavelmente teria a sensação de não mais existir, pois se tornaria parte fixa do colchão e lençóis.

Kafka? Estela deveria deixar de ler filosofia antes da meia-noite.

Conseguia visualizar a pilha de livros na mesa de cabeceira. Ocupando todo o espaço junto dos óculos de leitura com armação grossa e azul marinho. O controle do abajur e a bombinha para asma. 'A Metamorfose' em suas últimas páginas, enquanto 'Paideia' jazia intacta no fundo daquela esbórnia literária entre fantasia, romance, filosofia e Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Se fechasse bem os olhos e pensasse nos móveis do quarto, conseguiria enxergar em sua mente a escrivaninha com o notebook e uma porção de cadernos meio preenchidos com rascunhos, anotações, rabiscos e devaneios. A cadeira com rodinhas emperradas que arranhavam o piso de madeira feito a lâmina dos patins no gelo. A cômoda abarrotada de camisetas antigas, calcinhas, meias e pijamas. O guarda-roupa preenchido com vestidos nunca usados, calças gastas até o meio das pernas esgarçarem e sapatos, uma inifinidade de tênis, botas e chinelos ortopédicos ou anatômicos. As duas estantes apinhadas com livros e mais livros, alguns lidos e outros jamais tocados, esperando seu momento de glória. Estela tinha dó de dizer aos autores empacados nas prateleiras e aos vestidos intactos que nunca veriam a luz do dia.

Em algum momento eles perceberiam.

Se Estela havia percebido que Raul não se importava de verdade, então logo mais os porcos descobririam como voar e os vestidos a como abandonar os cabides desconfortáveis. Era tudo questão de tempo. O impossível acontece todos os dias, tão frequentemente que se torna corriqueiro.

Isso é perigoso, Estela pensava.

O impossível se tornar corriqueiro e banal. O que restaria para a inocência se tudo o que não deveria acontecesse sem cerimônia?

Perigoso demais, assim como a risada de Raul.

Estela se sentia irritada pensando em Raul. O coração batia forte e as borboletas faziam sua dança, rodopiando dentro do estômago. Ao mesmo tempo tudo isso se tornava pesar e angústia, porque era uma cerimônia em vão. As asas batiam freneticamente pelos motivos errados e por alguém tampouco certo.

Manipular um coração e mente não deveria ser tão fácil. Ainda assim, Estela sentia os dedos de Raul lhe atravessando os seios para pegar sua alma pulsante e manuseando sem qualquer cuidado. Rolando-o na palma e entre os dedos, fingindo deixar cair, rindo do desespero da moça e o beijando antes de colocar no lugar. Aquele sorriso bonito e perigoso feito o impossível corriqueiro.

O rapaz de olhos resplandecentes e sagazes parecia enxergar na inocência de Estela todas as oportunidades perdidas. Todas as aventuras possíveis. Tudo que poderia ser feito sem consequências. Todos os crimes éticos, corações quebrados, leis não escritas, amores dolorosos, tesão reprimido, sonhos abandonados, o conhecimento inútil, os pensamentos brilhantes, as noites mal-dormidas, frustrações, inseguranças e, acima de tudo, a disposição, vontade em fazê-lo feliz e satisfeito.

Como o impossível corriqueiro, o entusiasmo por se fazer útil e o medo de morrer solitária eram nocivos, borbulhavam feito ácido ativo em base neutra. Raul sabia manusear essa oportunidade única sem qualquer dificuldade.

E foi por isso que se conheceram. Raul precisava de alguém tola o suficiente para se aproveitar. Estela não tinha qualquer traquejo social e uma necessidade doentia de agradar a quem prestasse atenção o suficiente às suas lamúrias.

Depois de tanta dor, Estela entendeu o que acontecia. Ela compreendeu a dinâmica de relacionamento deles. A forma como Raul a agradava e então lhe sugava toda a disposição, antes de se afastar e passar a evitar, ignorar e fingir que se importava casualmente.

Ela não sabia dizer se no fundo, bem lá no fundo, o homem se importava de verdade. Esperava que sim, pois isso tornaria tudo menos patético. Contudo, em retrospecto, Raul seguia um modus operandi muito bem definido e Estela caia rebolando em cada nova história.

Patético.

Foi em uma convenção de livros. Estela e Raul se conheceram próximo ao estande de dramas e suspense. Eles compartilhavam o interesse por histórias melodramáticas e romances com grandes mensagens no fim. Entre todas as mentiras e manipulações, aquilo era verdade. Não tinha como uma mentira começar tão cedo, se não houvesse uma razão razoável.

O casal conversou durante horas naquele mesmo quiosque. Discutindo sobre livros preferidos, música, trabalho, amigos e, pouco a pouco, sentimentos e solidão. Estela mostrou cedo demais suas cartas, mas não estava acostumada a ter alguém tão interessado. Raul viu naquela candura uma fonte inesgotável de favores, ideias e entretenimento. Ele não precisava se importar e ela não precisava saber.

O problema não estava só no comportamento de Raul. O problema principal era Estela.

O rapaz foi descuidado o suficiente para ser pego, mas todos no convívio e na vida de Estela tiravam proveito dessa característica ambígua. Todos enxergavam na ignorância emocional da moça uma oportunidade para saírem cada vez mais fortes. Ela faria das tripas coração para ajudar.

E ela ajudava, assistindo se distanciarem em seguida.

Observar o resultado da própria ignorância nunca deixa de ser doloroso. Pensar que não se ensina novos truques a um velho cão parece tão pertinente, quando o bicho irrepreensível é a própria mente.

Consequência de suas inseguranças, Estela nunca tinha entendido como se relacionar com os outros. Não conhecia algo genuíno feito a amizade, por isso se agarrava a qualquer meio afeto sem compromisso. Entendia tão bem isso, mas não encontrava uma solução para abandonar velhos hábitos.

Estela sabia que Raul não iria estar sempre ao seu lado. Era natural precisarem espairecer separados de tempos em tempos. Ainda assim, doía quando pensava na possibilidade do rapaz só sentir interesse em saber sobre ela quando tinha segundas intenções. Não era um interesse nu e cru em relação ao corpo ou mente, mas sim na disposição. Ele sabia perfeitamente que a moça nunca lhe negaria favores. Independente do quão exaustiva fosse a incumbência, ela faria e não pediria absolutamente nada em troca.

Esse era o jeito singelo e, por vezes, inocente de Estela. Todos sabiam disso. Todos se aproveitavam disso.

Estela esperava essa revelia inescrupulosa de todos, incluindo de Raul. Estela também esperava que Raul fosse diferente e somente a amasse, como amiga ou não.

Parecia improvável Estela perceber que estava sendo usada, mas o impossível se tornou corriqueiro e isso é perigoso.

Olhando para a escuridão e se sentindo parte dela, Estela puxou os cobertores para cima do peito, segurando-o firme com ambas as mãos. Ela pensava nas estrelas e em como o luar parecia se destacar entre elas, cegando com seu brilho cego e falso as verdadeiras atrações da noite.

Parecia utópico as estrelas se destacarem por si só com um luar tão grande envolvendo o céu, mas se Estela abandonou Raul, então o impossível se tornou corriqueiro.

O impossível se tornar corriqueiro. Isso é perigoso.

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