quarta-feira, 11 de abril de 2012

• Love is…

Having seen the movie about the tormented life of the great poetess Florbela Espanca recently, as I wrote about it a week ago, I came up to this deep thought: I was blessed by having lived nine years of my life with someone who was far too great for being mine and only mine much more time.

I think I knew it from the start. I counted on being left by her, sooner or later. One could see she wasn't meant to be mine forever. She belongs to the city. To the world, even. The gods had tailored her to become a great artist. She was already a poetess, as well. And she wanted to become a fado singer. To hear her voice is to love her, people say…

Year after year, however, I became familiar with the feeling we would be the best friends to one another and forever stay together. It seemed a safe value. And so, we left each other absolutely free to do what could please to each one of us.

That too much trust I had on her led, when things went wrong, to the hardest deception I experienced with anyone in this life. How could I not saw it coming? This is what hurts me most.

But nevertheless the pain I have inside, I still love her. For the good memories she left me with.

Or perhaps mainly because I know myself damn well. I know my own strengths and weaknesses. I am very lonesome. And I can hardly see anyone else able to love me as I am, the way she has loved me, so awfully good. As no one else but her knows better how to make a man feel being loved by a woman.

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