Hoy fue uno de "esos días".
Estoy agradecido de haber hecho lo que hice, si es que funciona darse gracias a uno mismo, pero es que hoy fue ya casi el colmo.
Pensé que mis ultimas semanas en mi acutal trabajo serían tranquilas, o absolutamente caóticas. Por una parte podría haber mandado todo a la cresta, total ya renuncié y por otra, podría haber seguido normal, preocupado de dejar todo bien para cuando me vaya.
Opté, taonamente por la peor opción: ninguna.
Jamás en mi vida había sentido tanto desgano, ni aquel que consideraba el pero año de mi vida fue tan malo como lo que he vivido estas semanas desde que decidí escapar.
Y no sé si es pena o rabia, lo que me recuerda mucho a alguien que siempre tiene problemas diferenciado esos sentimientos, pero estoy sintiendo algo horrible...
... siento que ya no quiero ser profesor.
... siento que me equivoqué.
... siento que...
Pero no puedo ser yo; yo amo mi profesión, o al menos creo que lo hago.
Se me fue la idea...
20 de octubre de 2016
30 de agosto de 2015
... but I digress
In a way, I'm a bit sorry that this is the topic I chose for these particular entry. I guess I thought I would have some other interesting thing to say or to write about here, but I feel I need to write about this, and the language does not actually matter this time.
I have been reading a lot lately, a habit I had left buried alongside my laundry (almost literally), but that I have recovered slowly (like my laundry) thanks to some unimportant books, but no because they're not important, it's just that they are not the types of book you brag about, but the kind that you read because you simply like them. The stories are simple enough, and complicated enough as well; the characters make sense, some of them are ratable, and therein lies the problem, the issue, the topic.
You, the reader, are, well just that: the reader. You are an spectator of a story that is unfolding before your eyes, or the eye of your mind if your imagination is stronger than mine. The story is not happening to you, no matter how much you would like it to, it simply won't. So you try to understand what that means, you try to remember that, as the reader, you can partake on the adventure from an outside view, and you feel good about that, specially when the story takes a sharp turn to an unexpected place, you enjoy the feeling of surprise, but then it subsides and your reality sets in again, you remember that once you finish the book, it will all be over, you are aware that the main character will survive the peril, you might not be sure how, but you know that it will, because the series still has another book title after the character, so the story becomes dull, the characters plain and all the effort becomes a waste...
... and then you keep reading, because there are still things that you don't know, things that still don't make sense, things that remain hidden, even for you, the reader, the external force that actually drives the entire story, so you find yourself in a different position: holding all that knowledge, but also pretending that you don't.
Sometimes the book actually takes a hold of you and you actually want or don't want something to happen, sometimes you desperately want to take a peek at the next page, or the next chapter, but you restrain yourself form that and you keep reading, even though you know how the page will end because your eyes slipped and saw that last word...
He/she knew it as well, the surprise is there, but it is not a surprise, the characters is speechless, and so are you. what to do now? keep reading, obviously...no! if you keep reading that terrible thing might happen, but you can't just leave the book there, the story has to end!... does it?
At some point, everything ends.
Funny though, this is not what I wanted to write about, I my head I had the word "love" waiting to be talked about, to reference and to give the reader, now you, something to think about.
I wanted to write about the real and unreal, about the feeling and the idea, about the topic, the sensation, the awkwardness, the joy, and the sadness... but my mind drove me somewhere else.
I have been reading a lot lately, a habit I had left buried alongside my laundry (almost literally), but that I have recovered slowly (like my laundry) thanks to some unimportant books, but no because they're not important, it's just that they are not the types of book you brag about, but the kind that you read because you simply like them. The stories are simple enough, and complicated enough as well; the characters make sense, some of them are ratable, and therein lies the problem, the issue, the topic.
You, the reader, are, well just that: the reader. You are an spectator of a story that is unfolding before your eyes, or the eye of your mind if your imagination is stronger than mine. The story is not happening to you, no matter how much you would like it to, it simply won't. So you try to understand what that means, you try to remember that, as the reader, you can partake on the adventure from an outside view, and you feel good about that, specially when the story takes a sharp turn to an unexpected place, you enjoy the feeling of surprise, but then it subsides and your reality sets in again, you remember that once you finish the book, it will all be over, you are aware that the main character will survive the peril, you might not be sure how, but you know that it will, because the series still has another book title after the character, so the story becomes dull, the characters plain and all the effort becomes a waste...
... and then you keep reading, because there are still things that you don't know, things that still don't make sense, things that remain hidden, even for you, the reader, the external force that actually drives the entire story, so you find yourself in a different position: holding all that knowledge, but also pretending that you don't.
Sometimes the book actually takes a hold of you and you actually want or don't want something to happen, sometimes you desperately want to take a peek at the next page, or the next chapter, but you restrain yourself form that and you keep reading, even though you know how the page will end because your eyes slipped and saw that last word...
He/she knew it as well, the surprise is there, but it is not a surprise, the characters is speechless, and so are you. what to do now? keep reading, obviously...no! if you keep reading that terrible thing might happen, but you can't just leave the book there, the story has to end!... does it?
Funny though, this is not what I wanted to write about, I my head I had the word "love" waiting to be talked about, to reference and to give the reader, now you, something to think about.
I wanted to write about the real and unreal, about the feeling and the idea, about the topic, the sensation, the awkwardness, the joy, and the sadness... but my mind drove me somewhere else.
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