My vacation, or: The fascist CLT forced me to contemplate life from afar

Vai começar tudo de novo e, no entanto, tudo nunca acabou nem foi interrompido.

It will start all over again and yet it never ended nor was it interrupted.

| Photo: Pixabay

) For me vacations have always been synonymous with punishment. Yeah, I know, that sounds weird. But the adverb is necessary: ​​always1868047 was so. As a child, vacations made it compulsory for me to separate myself from my colleagues – who I thought of as friends. Not to mention the Enciclopédia Barsa that I dreamed of reading while jumping off the trampoline at Harmonia Clube de Campo, in Umuarama.

An equally uncomfortable feeling took hold of me throughout the month of April, when, as an adult closer to old age than adolescence, I was forced to remain silent, which everyone assured me & the CLT, it was necessary. And maybe it was. To plant to reap, Ecclesiastes teaches with simplicity. Let the earth rest. Passively receive rainwater, with its random nutrients. Sow and wait for plenty. So be it!

Anyway, it was a “punishment” that took him back not only to the small town in northwest Paraná, but also to the glass table in the living room of the house in Bairro Alto, where my mother, in that mood that is still peculiar to her today, covered textbooks and notebooks with the indefectible blue checkered plastic. Me beside her, anticipating everything I would learn in the coming months. Looking forward to finally knowing what a logarithm is (never did).

The vacation determined by the fascist CLT also made me realize that I still share anguish and dramas with that boy who, amid the reddish sand of the countryside, felt physically isolated from civilization. At that time, I had the impression that life was what happened while I had black cow at the only ice cream shop in town. Or while playing bocce with my uncle’s drunken old friends. The circumstances are slightly different, my hair has thinned and my beard is whiter than ever, but the feeling is the same: life is what happens while I am obligatorily silent.

I don’t need to be the amateur psychoanalyst I once was to melancholically verify the perversity contained in the idea that the world will one day get used to with my absence. It’s as if the stars of a peacefully rustic sky whip me with this absolute truth that I insist on childishly wanting to refute: the importance we give ourselves is an illusion. And, in the proverbial frying pan, silence or word, presence or absence, the silly joke and the carefully constructed concept all have the same limited scope.

This does not mean that I should, we should or you should opt for the Benedictine exit, isolating us from a world that shrugs its shoulders for everything that happens in his (his) bowels. As long as there is life, the absence must be filled. In addition, there is beauty and a mysterious sense in the act of carrying the rock to the top of the mountain only to have it plummet the next day. It’s just that between the foothills (a word I haven’t used since 1982!) and the summit many more things happen than our vain philosophy.

Here, before concluding the chronicle, the boy again gives the man a hand to share with him the delicious feeling of seeing his friends again. It will start all over again and yet everything never ended nor was it interrupted. For my part, it is as if I were leafing through the textbooks here carefully covered and labeled, and without the donkey ears that would adorn their used sheets at the end of the year. Anxious once again, but not to learn logarithms, but “democracy”, “freedom”, “tolerance” and “justice” – much more difficult subjects, for which there is no scientific calculator possible.

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