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Certos dias


Tem dias que, para sentir-se vivo, é preciso saltar de paraquedas, correr uma maratona, atravessar o canal da Mancha a nado, escalar uma montanha. Tem dias que, para sentir-se vivo, não é possível apenas acordar, tomar café, ler, pensar. É preciso ir ao Japão, à Índia, à Indonésia, sozinho! É preciso perder-se nas ruas, ouvir a língua estranha. É preciso não entender. Sentir-se pequeno, insignificante, em um templo gigantesco. É preciso quase sumir. É preciso não saber se vai voltar.

Em alguns dias, a claridade do sol, a pequenez do dia a dia, não traz vida, não é suficiente. Tem dias que nenhum sorriso, nenhuma palavra, nenhuma cor apaga a mácula da dor, da perda, da separação. Não há distração suficiente, não há projeto que faça sentido, não há empenho que, nesses dias, valha a pena. Toma-se conta dos projetos, empenha-se, mesmo assim. Investem-se energias, cumprem-se obrigações, doam-se carinhos, buscam-se forças, mesmo assim.

Há dias em que é preciso, no entanto, na impossibilidade da grandiosidade, conformar-se. Aceitar o vazio, a dor, e deixar o tempo passar. Na impossibilidade de sentar à beira mar, de contemplar as ondas, a cor das águas e do céu, deve-se contemplar o existente, deve-se aceitar o som das cigarras, mesmo que irritante, mesmo que ensurdecedor. Na impossibilidade de não proferir palavra até o anoitecer, deve-se dar bom dia, deve-se tratar com afeto os estranhos. Deve-se aceitar sorrisos, carinhos, afagos. Deve-se ignorar a indiferença, relevar as ignorâncias. Porque não serão assim todos os dias. 


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