I'm kind of tired of the struggle between holding back emotion and having to play a farce to show a strong face. I don't look strong, I really do look like someone who insists on moving on, whimpering when it's time to bump into the painful nail of the football days on cobbled streets.
And because I don't have anything strong, I choose to let the waters that have long been kept in the corners of my eyes erupt and wash my soul of the scraping dust that comes with my eyes to what is said to be the reality of life. And, not being strong, behold, I allow myself to be mushy!
I appreciate the delicacy, as I see art and complex work in simple things like a kind e-mail from a publisher beckoning me with the beauty of being quiet in a corner, together with sweet and soft beings, even dispensing, see what detachment, an honest beer for company! Unexpected and certainly undeserved, that email arrived and took me in so-called mushy flavors: it moved me and filled my early morning chest with the air of the first morning after summer time!
I want to continue to be corny, even though every now and then I'm almost pierced by the scolding stares of another member of the squad of the strong and insensitive. I want to continue to be enveloped by my mushy soul, which leads me to almost enter the orbit of a star zillions of light-years away, just because it came to me discreet and almost silent to express nostalgia on the part of being so loved that it is almost winged. !
It's good to be mushy, believe the patient reader of these lines pregnant with fussiness and take pity on me, in case you see me as lost and disconnected from the times that follow: I didn't have the competence to let myself be brutalized and I assume, happy as a bird bathing in a one-way puddle and refreshing mid-afternoon rain. Seeing him, I take him as a little humanizing angel.
It's humanizing, if you're not drifting into feelings of self-pity, to understand that being corny means babbling lightheartedly rather than polluting the world with insults and anger. And humanization is nothing more than bringing us back to the purity of the years when we wrote that the person born in Spain is a “Brazilian” and being able to ask the father why turtles don't have an ass!
I want to follow mushy, submitting the troglodyte that still inhabits the corners of the spaces not yet purified of the soul. I no longer give importance to the looks and censures of those who do not forgive me for my fussiness and I leave them out of my way, because I need fussiness to, on a given morning on Alexandre Dumas Street, in the Granja Julieta neighborhood, a beautiful residential space. -commercial of this São Paulo where I live, to come across a scene beyond touching, something that only a mushy eye is able to capture. I explain, not without first swallowing a small salty lump in my throat, which comes along with the memory: a super-pregnant, beautiful woman, walking in the opposite direction of mine, with that walk similar to that of a graceful ship dancing with the waters of an ocean of waters virgins, the right hand flat on the belly, almost touching that region where the upper curve of that little house of miracles ends and a gleam in the eyes that must be equal to the illuminator of the suns throughout the universe! I got down from the sidewalk, which was too narrow, I gave the space for the calm and safe passage of that wonderful being and I said to her: “You are beautiful!”, to which she replied: “Thank you, God bless us!”. Pay close attention to the pronoun in the first person plural!
At that moment, my fussiness took hold once and for all in all the spaces where I keep the few virtues I possess, under my oath to remain mushy… Thank God!
