better than nothig...

In the last few days I've been noticing something strange happening to me. To my usual readers, I humbly ask you to accept my most sincere apologies for the use of this foreign language - and also for the eventual mistakes that you'll be able to find among those lines. Althought it may seem strange, I didn't have much of a choice...

The origin of this idiomatic problem is as rare and as difficul to explain as the problem itself, and it took me some time to find a way in witch I could put it clearly. But the strangest thing is yet the fact that, had I not chosen to write this story in English, it could not have been writen. If you have the time to solve this puzzle, and the patience to find its key, I beg you to help me.

For the last couple of weeks, I've been back at my parents house. By moving here I could have faced the normal consequences, starting with fights with my brother or minor changes in my routine. However, the changes have been more severe than I would have expected...

As I was telling you, it's been two weeks since I came back to the cradle. And the've been long. I wasn't used to having cable TV at home, nor to have that much free time, with help to do the dishes and to make my bed. But I got used quickly. I needed no time to start zapping around and to turn down my old outdoor activities for some automatized TV watching sessions. And so It started.

I wasn't used to processing that much information. I think I had grown condecendent with a circular thought pattern, feeling cosy in my mind's own mase. Not that I stopped thinking, but all my energies were focused in digging that hole even deeper (that bottomless pit of questions you can't answer but you still keep trying to). And now, freed of the trap-path I followed for the last year and a half, I find myself in this world - again.

The world I speak of, however, is not free. It's a place of ideas that no one can call teir own, and at the same time everyone accepts them as if they were plain truths. Worse: it's not a world in portuguese, or in reason. It's a nightmare of cliches that have been writen as a screenplay, allways in english, and repeated endlessly in two hours scatches called movies or three minute noises called songs. It's a hell made to ilude, a faked paradise forced into every corner of everyone's eyes so that no one can believe it just isn't. And it's so simple to fall for it. What strenght I've left to fight I'm using it right now, in this foolish atempt to regain conscience of what I've lost.

I hope my words still make sense, despite the fact that I'm no longer expecting them to. They no longer corespond to my own reality, so maybe that won't corespond to any reality at all. I'm living a fiction that does not belong to my country, to my world, to my life. Trying to see through it brought me to this point, but now what else? I'm trying to read between the lines and find something that could bring me back, decode this infinite placebo, but I know that even this idea has been placed in my mind. And so I write, following the only road still open, even thought it leads nowhere.

Maybe the solution exists, maybe it doesn't. But it's not here, and of that I'm sure. In my quest to find it, I've lurked into depths that most people will never venture, dreamed of heavens were every sense is filled with hapiness. And it's not there either, in any of those places.

Persuing this search for understanding is enought to keep me moving, but not enought to make me sane. This is my flight of Icarus, this is my one chance of teasting life - and enjoy it as it comes silently to an end. Doing that with my own reasons, with as much freedom as I have left, is better than remaining within the tracks. It's also better than nothing...