Pular para o conteúdo principal

I CREATED A FAKE




I once created a fake of myself . This is normal , some friends asked me, do not know, not even really know what can be considered normal . After all, people have different standards of behavior conceived as within normal and everything seems extraordinary, elegant, avant-garde , even postmodern (if it exists ) . Anyway , it all depends on the context in which it appears the situation or behavior . Anyway , for a while , I was very happy with my fake , or rather , I was awarded some benefits . My fake participated in many social networks . It was smart, intelligent , appropriate to the new technological and artistic trends , besides being politically positioned , and ultimately , a great philosopher . But it was a fake , a figure created to protect me as a walking stick to support me , a character to share with me the most estrambólicas information , to discuss social problems , to share the existential questions, to make objective attitudes toward more different points of view . Yes , because he had a point of view . She had well -argued assertions , knew expose their ideas with unparalleled mastery . He was a true genius in the art of vetting, abalizar , confronting situations , finding the most diverse outputs and intervene shamelessly the findings of others , showing other ways , other ways of looking at the world. Different looks not lacked . Joy and good humor too . It was perfect. Educated . Patient paciencioso , thrifty , temporizing , elegant . A gentleman . For a while , I accompanied him in his musings , their diverse ideas , their unique points of view, fleeing the common sense and desacomodam things . After all , the top of his extensive knowledge , his experiences and his troubled mundane trajectory espraiava the rough neighborhoods of social networks , the larger doses of new discoveries , new ways of situating the gaps , filling them with experience , content and action. I got used to it. I got used to her way of giving back what I thought of sharing with me the findings of the same signaling pathways , to broaden horizons at the same time seemed so near us , so attainable that it was sufficient esticássemos hand , one finger , one who judges , pointing to get closer and closer , the vaunted goal, who knows the truth . That was how we behaved almost arrogant . A delivering to another for granted , the precise contribution at the right time . As a double game , where one depends on the other . Tennis game , precise, taut, focused , quiet . Only the sound of the racquet , the sigh of the crowd , the shout of victory . One thing that gleamed in the dusty and cloudy sky facebook or any other social network . Anything we said was worth millions of hits , for us , of course , we were not interested in sentences Arnaldo Jabor [ sic ] , in comments about drinking , cooking , that intimate barbecue , washed the caipirinha and red and squinty eyes who abused joy, things that only pertain to those who put on the network , or used bike , the dog peeing on the couch , in stretched mother in the network , showing misshapen thighs , or the sugary messages , prompting fears and guilts , and searches responses of endless chains . There was nothing that we were looking for . That was something the deceased Orkut . But suddenly , the fake was being connected by other friends , was being discussed in order of friendship , sharing , and increasingly harassed by their ideas and manifestations unpunished . Everyone wanted to know it , learn from your profile , browse your pictures , your wall . Wanted to accompany them , follow it , find the path that it seemed to open so many doors , so many ways and so many ways to find the truth . Not everyone, of course . Not those of the caipirinha , personal photos, daily show about their business , from the food from noon until stomachache afternoon . These do not . They were interested in enjoying anything and share with the sameness of everyday life . That was news to few . But these few were multiplying, which gave me some fear . Fear of being overtaken by fake . My friends have not heard anymore nor shared what I posted , although they agreed with me , ah, just because I shared with the fake , agreed with the fake , the fake fed me . They wanted to do the same . It was a time of great suffering. Some said , because he only shares with you? Why just agree with you? Because it describes in detail, with many more arguments , based on articles from experts in appropriate readings in scientific knowledge or their own livings what you declare you ? Why does not cooperate with us, do not share with us. So I had to split the fake . Or rather , I had to write for it to friends too. Then started raining requests to add them to your social networks . They wanted him , they loved him . Was not me who followed , was not what I thought it was worth , was what he claimed were their attitudes that mattered . He was the king of the party . I became just an accomplice. Then I had an idea . I decided to delete the fake . I decided to put a stop to those arrogant attitudes , that thinking avant-garde , postmodern , and if there is such a thing ( as I thought before) , those points of view advanced , that bold way to escape the ordinary sense . I needed to eliminate fake . Away with him, away with her ​​fame , her uninhibited way of being , their intimacy increasingly exacerbated together with my friends, who were now more his than mine. There was no escape . The only way out was to end it. So I did . I deleted the fake . Back to being myself. The discuss the same issues , politics, society, social movements , the beauty of nature and the struggle for its preservation the quest for racial equality, the fight to end prejudice, philosophy in its various aspects , classical music , good music , theater, literature , cultural life ... Also ran the common sense values ​​seen and reviewed , evaluated other ways ... Friends moved away, who Postava one another "like" or share a photo or want a good night , a good day, a good day , a good weekend ... And all returned to show their beautiful houses , newly acquired , their latest model cars , their bikes , their leather coats , their kebabs weekend ... Anyway , the mediocrity that is part of their lives . I think I'll create fake.
Fonte da ilustração: geralt Gerd Altmann de Freiburg, Deutschland (domínio público)

Comentários

PULICAÇÕES MAIS VISITADAS

Estranha obsessão : um filme de muitas perguntas e poucas respostas

Estranha obsessão (2011), ( pode haver alguns "spoilers" ) em francês “Le femme du Vème” ou em inglês “ The woman in the fifth” é uma produção franco-polonesa, dirigida por Pawet Pawlikowski. Ethan Hawke e Kristin Scott Thomas formam o estranho par romântico na trama de mistério. O protagonista é Tom Richs (Ethan Hawke), um escritor norte-americano que se muda para Paris, para se aproximar de sua filha. Já em Paris, depois de ser roubado, se hospeda em um hotel barato. Numa livraria, é convidado para uma festa, onde conhece uma viúva de um escritor húngaro (Kristin Scott Thomas), tradutora de livros, com a qual mantém um romance. Por outro lado, mantém um romance no hotel, com uma linda polonesa (Joanna Kulig, atriz polonesa). Por fim, é acusado de suspeito por um crime, pois seu vizinho de quarto é assassinado. Para livrar-se da acusação, tem como álibi o encontro com a viúva, em sua casa, porém, a polícia descobre que a mulher havia cometido suicídio em 1991. Mas toda es

Trabalho voluntário no Hospital Psiquiátrico: uma provocação para a vida

Participávamos de um grupo de jovens religiosos, no início da década de 80. Era um grupo incomum, porque embora ligado à igreja católica, recebia participantes sem religião definida, sendo um deles, inclusive, espírita. Formava um caldo interessante, porque os argumentos, ainda que às vezes, estéreis, produziam alguns encaminhamentos para discussão. Era realmente um agrupo eclético e ecumênico. A linha que nos norteava era a solidariedade com o próximo. Queríamos inconscientemente modificar o mundo, pelo menos minorar o sofrimento dos que estavam a nossa volta. Diversos temas vinham à pauta, tais como moradores de vilas pobres, desempregados, idosos do asilo, crianças sem acesso a brinquedos ou lazer. Era uma pauta bem extensa, mas houve um tema que foi sugerido por mim. Tratava-se de algum tipo de trabalho com os pacientes do hospital psiquiátrico. Houve de imediato, uma certa aversão e pânico pelos integrantes do grupo. Classificavam os transtornos mentais a partir da ag

Lascívia

Este conto é um desafio de uma oficina online, sobre a elaboração de um conto erótico com o protagonismo masculino. Carlos estava sentado na poltrona, ao lado da janela, entediado. Quem diria que ficasse assim, depois da reunião com os estagiários e as modelos excitantes que participaram da aula de pintura. Entretanto, nem a aula ou as mulheres faziam-no esquecer o homem que se atravessara na frente do carro, obrigando-o a parar quase em cima da calçada. Por um momento, imaginou tratar-se de um assalto, apesar da aparência de executivo. Mas quem poderia confiar num homem de terno e uma maleta embaixo do braço, hoje em dia? Dera uma desculpa, dizendo-se interessado em saber sobre as suas aulas. Carlos não respondera. Estava irritado demais para explicar qualquer coisa. Levantou-se, pegou um café e voltou a sentar-se, olhando o deserto da rua que se alongava além da vidraça. Não chegava ninguém, era o que pensava. Entretanto, não demorou muito e bateram na porta. Espiou