Sábado, 5 de Novembro de 2011

Uma Carta de Amor a Angela Merkel

 

Dear Angela,

 

As i write this letter, the weather outside is an accurate reflexion of our lingering, yet tumultuous affair. Strong wind gusts, torrential rains and ironic flashes of sunny disposition are taking turns at me, eroding the remnants of hope throughout a chilly morning in the western tip of what once we called home.

 

Tell me: was it ever really home? Proverbial constraints should refrain myself from calling it that, since home, i now understand, was never where our heart was in the first place. How such a story of common feelings and ideals, how such a seemingly purposeful mission left me feeling so stranded, so deceived, is something i'm still coming to terms with. 

 

Sure, life teaches you to learn from the wrongs. But it doesn't necessarily equips us to face the unforessen. Or maybe i chose to ignore the signs that preceded you, telling me not to be naive, subtle foretellings that, had i known better, would have made me ignore apparent emotional ties - for my own good. And maybe, just maybe, it's all on me, and this is but a foolish attempt at reconciling with myself. 

 

I've seen selfishness many times before, but i'd never felt so wounded by it. For you, my dear, what now follows is an exciting path of discovery. I know my Angela: you're a strong woman. Karmic balances will leave you scratchless, your ideals untarnished, your longing a remote outtake of our story. And you sure as hell know me: my path will now become a painful descent into myself. Somehow, it's like you always felt prepared to live without me. 

Without me pondering, for once, on the same thought.

 

I still remember what you told me in 2007, during our amorous summit in Lisbon. We jokingly called it summit, but it was so much more than that. You told me of reassurance, of unbreakable vows, you asserted a willingness to fight for us, no matter what. You told it like few others before, with the sheer intensity of things purported to be taken seriousy. 

 

The long run proved me wrong. It could have been different, Angela. It could still be. You should have fought harder for us. Ironically enough, you're the one i always saw as unwilling to give up without a fight. Only this fight is breaking us loose. 

 

Still, i wonder if, in this precise moment, you feel yourself hesitating back towards us. Even if such a sunny disposition soon shifts into wind gusts and torrential rains. You could have let me down easy. Much easier than this.

publicado por Vasco Mendonça às 13:32
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