The only thing that fulfills me is literature. Is to think about the meaning. This feeling drives me home, says that everything will be okay, and I believe it. It says no matter anatomy exams, patients’ expectations, internship hours counting, dad’s runaway, money lacking, when I’m there, right in front of an idea, staring to a poem, a movie, a friend’s phrase in the middle of a conversation, I feel happy, I feel joyful, hopeful, complete. The matter with life is that we have not only to eat and have things, not only to have money, not only to have a job, but an identity. The matter with life is that I can’t just kiss my girlfriend and enjoy it, as I know I like it – is that I have also to call myself names, have a sexual orientation, to be or not to be (queer). I can’t sing, compose, play out there to hundreds or thousands (it itself would alter it), I have to also BE a singer, a psychologist, and act like one. Live like one. The problem with life is that you can’t just talk with people meanwhile you wait for you mother in the waiting room of the dentist’s office. You have to get to know that other person and know that she’s an Adventist that wanted to dance, but she thinks that serving God doesn’t match with dance steps, and she prefers not going to the floor dance to not go to hell. The problem is that you can’t just hear it, you have to also question your own belief (or, in this case, the lack of it), ’cause you know, there’s no God, but burning alive must be really terrifying. The problem with life is getting involved. And it takes, at times, more than we would like to give away. And she dares say “give away everything you get”. Fuck Melissa, save Melissa. She got it.

 

http://noticias.uol.com.br/midiaglobal/nytimes/2009/01/24/ult574u9105.jhtm