sketchablepaperfold

an aiming to be designer, with the soul of a writer

Tag: society

The Unsent Letter

[This will be a different sort of post. I confess that it’s stuck on my throat, and I don’t seem to be able to handle it anymore without writing. I believe it’s called addiction, right?!]

Diane,

I don’t even know exactly how I should start this, which words should I use to say everything that’s been compressed in my throat for a while.

I have no idea how we’ve come this far. It’s been almost a month since the last time we spoke. A month, you know?! An entire month.

I got worried, I wrote you. Short sentences, few words, I know, but that’s all I could do. If you were really trying to be away, or if something was actually happening, you wouldn’t feel like talking or writing for hours – I know that. I tried to reach you in different ways, different days, so that you didn’t feel pressured. You never replied.

I would try to go to your place, but I know that also wouldn’t work. So, I was just left with staying here. Nothing to say, nothing to do but to wait. Wait, without knowing how long it would take for you to even mention that you were alive. Without knowing what was happening, after all.

I wish you would, at least, give me some answers. Some real answers, you know?! At least, once.

Yes, I wish I had them. Because being here, without having the smallest idea of what’s going on in your head to be away for so long really stinks. You’ve no idea of how much.

Where the hell are you, Di? Where did you go? Where the hell is my best friend?

Really, where is she?! I haven’t seen her in a long, long while. And, to say the truth, I’m tired. Extremely tired of waiting. Waiting for you to give me a word, an answer. Waiting, at least, for you to have the smallest hint of how much I care, and how much this bothers me.

You know, sometimes I feel like screaming at you, so that you could, at least, try to grasp how tired I am of being the second in line, the one who gives it all, and doesn’t seem to get a single thing in return. I wish I could scream you a WAKE UP!, so that you could understand what you’re doing, and how angry and frustrated I feel.

Go ahead, tell me that you’ve got a busy life [just like you actually did, a few minutes ago]. Ask me again why the hell am I asking you to send an invitation for a meeting through an old-style train. Grasp the differences within my words, and ask me again why am I saying that sort of thing. Yeah, you’ve seen it. You noticed that it was slightly different from my usual, didn’t you? Ask again. Do it, just ask.

And in that very moment, I would only wish you were in front of me so that I could explain it. So that I could put everything in the simplest words, once and for all, with all the almost raw emotions I never allowed you to see. So that you could finally see that, after all, I’m made of flesh and bone, and my blood is still running. Just like my best friend in college said [yes, best friend] “People tend to think I’m too calm the like, but then, they cross their limits and just get shocked when I react.” I subscribe each and every single word he said.

You crossed the limit of the line I drew a long, long time ago. You were always worried about being with those creatures that weren’t even your friends. I have to spend time with them, you used to say, in a guilty expression. On the inside, I only laughed. A lot, actually. You had to spend time with those whores. And what about me?! The one who was always around when you needed anything, anything at all. No, I was a decent, reasonable person and I was completely able to understand how hard your life was.

I never said I had a busy life. Ever. And, probably, most of the times you tried to reach me, I was busy, and deeling with a huge amount of things at the same time. But I would quit whatever I was doing, and give my full attention to you.

See, that’s exactly why you thought it was weird for me not to say the usual it’s all right, darling. You are used to have the passive Amy, the one that’s always waiting for the chance to help, and then, to be left. Forget that, I’m just tired of it.

Ask me, ask me why I said that. And I’ll only say that you were never able to express gratitude for any of my words, attitudes, and the like. I was always worried about you, while you were worried about not letting anyone else down but me.

It’d be a whole new world if you actually read this, wouldn’t? You probably blame me for being fake, wouldn’t you? But try to think the other way around: did you ever give me the space, the opportunity to say it? To tell Hell, I don’t agree! No, you didn’t, right?

So, just don’t get shocked. Sooner or later, I’d lose it. Everyone knows that. I’ve handled it while I could, more than what I could. Yet, now, I couldn’t do it. Not anymore.

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Personal Thoughts About A Girl Named Amy

There are things that I, honestly, can’t avoid.

It’s obvious that no one needed me to come here and read an entire post just to grasp something that’s being broadcast, all over the world, about another girl named Amy [and I’m saying another, since I’m not talking about myself]

I absolutely won’t try to build a replica of an episode of biography channel, since I don’t even know much about her story.

All I know – and it is not much – I’ve learnt from her songs and, I must confess, I’m only familiar with a few.

She was the kind of person that actually felt what she sang, and anyone with just a bit of sensibility would understand it. Amy, I think, didn’t write just to make money, but because she needed to write. And she had the sort of song that everyone sings along, even with the radio.

It takes a lot of courage to tell the world what she said on Rehab. Honestly, I’m quite sure I wouldn’t be brave enough, if I was in her place. In the end, she put the entire world singing Rehab, which was, clearly, her story.

I must confess that I enjoyed her songs, and loved the “happy” ones, like Valerie. There was this almost childish smile that caught everyone that heard or sang Valerie, and I got that smile over and over again.

Yet, something really, really different came to me when I heard Back To Black. Not the first time I heard it – since, then, I didn’t get half of her words – but after reading the lyrics. The moment I heard that song knowing exactly what she was saying, I felt a different, particular emotion.

I truly knew what she sang and, again, I must confess that Back To Black was my song, the one that could have been, easily, written by me. Not because I liked it, but because I knew exactly what those words meant – I had been there. She sang my life too, in that song.

And that feeling made me say what I’ve already said: that she needed to write, just the way that every writer needs. We live for writing, we only live with writing, we can’t even think properly without writing [because, without knowing exactly how, this huge lump installs itself in the throat, in the heart, in each and every single part of our being, until we write]

When a person truly feels something, and writes about it, the reader gets the whole thing, the whole feeling. And that happened to me with Back To Black. It only takes a few words, a few notes to give me goose bumps and, quite often, to lead me to tears.

A song! it’s only a song!, would those blessed [or not] insensitive creatures say. Yet, for me, it’s not a song. It’s a story, a statement, just like every other thing that wasn’t written with hands and/or brain, but which every letter that was given to the world came from the heart.

And yes, it was simply a personal review that a supposed Amy made about another Amy. Blame me for not researching at wikipedia, and not googling a single thing I wrote.

My Life Could Be A Movie, But I’d Rather Have A Prime Time Series

Here and there, I think that my life would be enough for a movie. Here and there?! Sometimes?! Gosh, what am I saying? I always think that.

However, in the following moment, I grasp reality: three hours would be even less than insignificant, and it wouldn’t even tell a tiny fraction of the story.

No, my life would truly be enough for an entire collection of books, a saga, an actual odyssey of adventures and misadventures transposed from paper to screen film. And it would be broadcast all over the world, so that everyone could enunciate which and how many features of my being, my existence, they’d share.

But it could be better than all of that – since not every movie lasts longer in our memory than the time it takes to reach the bottom of one or two sweet popcorn buckets, or to hear the noise, the attrition between the straw and the ice cubes.

Better and more efficient than being on red carpet once and getting the Oscar for best dramatic movie would be a prime time series. [Yeah, blame me for thinking big!]

Yes, one of those which have countless seasons, which last episodes always end with an intriguing to be continued…

One of those that almost leads the audience to sympathize with the story, because it seems so real and it could happen to anyone [And they wouldn’t know that the story was real and that, in the end of the credits, an any resemblance to real life is not a mere coincidence would be included]

One of those series that in the exact moment that everything seems to be all right, there’s a problem coming, and this scenery would happen over and over again, getting to upset the most insensible ones who, doubtless, would leave the couch with a rude it’s always the same thing! They only do this to increase their ratings!  [Surely they wouldn’t know that lives which, sometimes, look like mexican soap operas actually exist and it’s not all the time they’re solved with a simple channel switch.

It would be great, wouldn’t it?! Oh boy, it would! We all wish we could just switch the program, switch the channel, or even throw the television throughout the window and invest our time in something more useful, profitable and interesting.

They’ll be an amount of poor viewers, those who’d follow the story, my story. At a certain point, they’ll end up feeling just like me. Together, we’d bring companies like Kleenex to the undeniable success;  laugh – perhaps – from nothing at all; appreciate the spring breeze; relish a nice hot chocolate; and tenderly smile hearing ballads – but only the sweet ballads – from Norah Jones.

[Yes, I truly wrote this last sentence hearing Those Sweet Words, one of her sweetest songs, and I just couldn’t avoid smiling]

Wishes – Deep Wishes. Nothing Else.

Sometimes, I just wish it could be easier. Everything, you know?

I wish living in our planet could be simplified, and not the hard thing it is nowadays. I wish I could breathe easily, knowing that I’d afford my college degree and find a job. I wish I could live as a young person, since I’m young and always behaved like an adult.

I wish I didn’t have to worry about a few things I worry.

I wish I could know exactly what to do, and how to do it. I wish I had an honest idea of the answer to the typical where do you see yourself in five years?, because I absolutely don’t. Well, I don’t even know if, in five years, I’ll be in the hemisphere I’m today, so how could I possibly know what and how I’ll be?

I wish a few things could be different, better. I wish that people didn’t have to worry about the insane expenses of their governors, could be sure they’ll have food in their tables and afford their kids a decent life.

I wish I could be like every college student, that keeps her old friends, and once in a while, meets them and attend to class dinners.

I wish I could understand all those statements I read in the internet about debts and familiar economy – stuff I actually needed to know so that I could help my parents – , but the people who write them just tend to forget that society isn’t made exclusively of lawyers. I wish they could understand that, and become more helpful than they are right now.

I wish I could truly collaborate in a creation of a better world but, sometimes, I just don’t know if I have the strength to do it.