Chronicle to read when it's red. Anger

There was a time when I lived in darkness. Oblivious to the good that surrounded me, which I understood as evil, I felt very angry. For which he saw only two ways out: death or revenge. As for the first one I lacked cowardice, I survived that dark period feeding fantasies of revenge against everything and everyone. Against God and the world. Until one day I realized a hole in my soul. After that day, as if by a miracle, I started to see the craters that all people carry on their chests.

To say that my life changed from one day to the next would be a commonplace, but not an exaggeration. It was like this, vapt-vupt, that I came to see old enemies as fragile (sometimes irritatingly fragile) figures, each with a hole like that, oh, in their soul. As a result, I have given up on chronic rabies, although I still sometimes have bouts of acute rabies. Death is no longer a wish, how shall I say?, macabre. And revenge fantasies turned, I don’t know, glitter.

I don’t know what provoked that revealing vision that the path to any kind of redemption lay in discovery from the other. Was it Jordan Peterson? Not. It was before. Was it some stoic philosopher? Was it Shakespeare? Fernando Pessoa? Or was it some biblical passage? I don’t know, I don’t remember. I have it for me that it was a mixture of all that, with pinches of the most unlikely of writers to consume as self-help: David Foster Wallace.

First there was a random excerpt from the collection “Consider the Lobster” . In it, DFW described some unfortunate character, one of those who complain that the whole world is against him. And (I quote in my head) he concludes by saying that some people don’t realize that they are unhappy just because they are jerks. Through a crack in my stupidity, I suddenly understood the reason for my unhappiness.

Then it was “This is Water”, the graduation speech already often cited here in these parts. There the idea is simpler and more direct: the person who stops you in traffic, who cuts in line, who makes a perverse comment, etc. he is also a wounded person. A person with a hole in the chest as big or bigger than his. Or smaller, but deeper. Acknowledging the pain of others is, for Wallace, the first step towards living in society.

Here, unfortunately, journalistic duty forces me to inform you that David Foster Wallace, taken by an inconsolable depression, committed suicide. If you want to understand how someone who writes “This is Water” is able to give up his life, ask my friend Francisco Escorsim. He has a word or two to say about this kind of personal shipwreck.

Retaking. It’s not easy to see the pain of those who curse you, betray you, deceive you, abandon you or harass you for using a more colloquial “te” in this sentence. But I try. And I succeed one day, fail the next, succeed again, fail again. There are times when successes outweigh failures and times when vice versa. When I get it, it’s that wonder: offense, betrayal, abandonment and hostility take on other contours. It’s just screams of pain. It’s impossible not to feel sorry for the Chihuahua who, frightened, shows you his threatening canines. When I can’t…

When I can’t, what increases is the hole in my own chest. My very particular pain. And the one who turns into the scared little dog is me. Praise becomes criticism. Any joke about the ridiculous aspects I recognize in myself takes on an edge of perversity. Childhood friends turn into mortal enemies. And every word said or written sounds like revenge.

I would like (and I will!) to end this text by emphasizing that pain… Ah, pain surrounds us. See that angry fellow over there who attacks him with a machine gun with exclamation points? This is pure pain. A pain so unfathomable that even the offender is often unaware of it. It is the pain of those who walk and stumble and scrape their knees and twist their ankles and are hungry and thirsty on the long and arid path from here to redemption.

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