Contemporary Love

1. "We are strange creatures."

2. "No matter how well off we find ourselves, it's never well enough."

3. "By nature we desire incompatible things. We fear isolation. We are a social animal. Yet, at the same time, we fear conformity and the loss of identity. We want both social contact and individuality. We are nonconforming conformists."

All of this was said by Adverb and I couldn't say it better. I guess age brings the right words: like a highway, simple, without curves. And I always admired the ones that translate life's complexity in a simple and direct way. Probably because I am the opposite. I don't feel comfortable translating life, because I feel it in every second of my being, and even when I think about it in a rational way, there I am, again, in the end, just feeling it. I wish I could see life as if I was on the second floor looking downstairs (a privilege that only age brings, because only age brings peace). But I see life among it, from a very short distance.

All this just to say that I also believe that the paradox in us is the world's "leit motiv", what makes us wake up in the morning. And that's something I want to write about today: my mornings.

I already wrote about how I believe that it is always possible to change, how I believe that healthy people always know when to change, how I believe that there are no impossible things, about my faith in hope and love; but I never wrote about how difficult it is for to me to wake up in the morning sometimes. In the end, I always wrote about my beliefs, but I never wrote about my humanity.

I never wrote about how difficult it is to prepare myself to go, everyday, to a place that I love -- because I do something that I love - but where I feel, often enough, that I am underestimated. And I never did it because I feel awfully bad speaking about my little pain when there are people out there suffering real pain, like hunger or poverty -- something that I only experimented through my job, and from the second floor (metaphorically speaking).

But, today, and because this is a diary, I am going to open an exception, and I am going to be completely selfish. And probably, who knows, the ones that read this, will somehow identify.

Every morning, almost without exception, I question myself: What am I going to do to at the newspaper? Do I have something to give? And this is the easy part, because quickly I understand that I do love to be a journalist and I do have something to give...

But do they want what I have to give them? I keep not having the answer... but what is important is what I feel, what I want to give, what I do every day, trying to give my very best, whether they want to receive it or not. Easy, right? But it's a lie. Because I do feel sad when I feel that I am doing something that does not correspond to what I think I should be doing.

I feel sad when I am writing nonsense about J. Lo and other pop stars, when, in fact, I miss the days I was working at night with prostitutes, writing about their lives, or when I was writing assignments about mothers of drug addicted people, or about violent kids that were born in violent places. Not because I like the fact that those things exist. Would be wonderful if there were no drug addicted people, no prostitutes, no violent kids. Would be wonderful if the world was a wonderland and everybody was happy so that I could write about J.Lo in peace.

But sad things and sad people are out there and I felt good when I was dealing with them, having the illusion that somehow I could help them a little by telling their stories. Was good to be with them, to listen to them and understand in a deeper way-- as deep as possible-- their realities, which, while so far away from our reality, is also so close to us. And I did it because I loved it, as a mission, even if I was always complaining about having a miserable salary, like 250 dollars a month and later 350 dollars, with no contract.

And because of that love I kept waking up in the morning to go to that newspaper, even when I saw people hired after me entering in the staff before me. I did it because I believed that it was the best choice, the healthy choice.

Believing it is hard to have everything, I chose to have less money and do what I love.

Of course, somebody paid for my choice: my father, who always helped me when I had no money to arrive to the end of the month. And he helped me a lot. I wouldn't have a house or a car if it wasn't for him. The old story, right? For each Van Gogh of the world there is a brother that sustains his dream (I am not comparing myself to Van Gogh, just comparing my father to his generous brother).

So I stayed, until today. And I entered in the staff, I went to the Culture section -- a place I always wanted to work in; I started to be better paid (even if it still is a miserable salary -- 650 dollars a month), and I realized that everything in life takes its own time and we need to be persistent and always do our best.

I should be happy, right? I am not. 1. "We are strange creatures"; 2. "No matter how well off we find ourselves, it's never well enough."

But I feel happy when -- now in the Culture section -- I have to write an assignment about the difficulties of our museums. I would feel happier if I had to write about how difficult it is to be an actor in this country; about how difficult it is to be an artist in this country. Because I care about people's stories. Because I care about people's difficulties. But not all stories. To be honest, I hate to copy what the pink press says about pop stars' lives. And because most of the time I am not writing people stories (and keep being badly paid) I start to doubt about my choice.

Should I wait? Should I hope that someday I will be writing again about what really matters (in my perspective, and I am sorry if you don't agree)? Is it a good idea that I stay in a place where I am badly paid without some other form of compensation? What about Adverb? Do I have the right to ask him for the same help I asked my father, without a strong reason? But, don't I love to be a journalist? Yes. But for how long will that love survive? Is it still a healthy choice? Will my body warn me when the time to say "goodbye" arrives? Should I wait and keep being persistent?

But how persistent do I have to be? How much more should I wait? Is it reasonable that I give myself that time when by my side there are people better paid with less years in the same house? Is it reasonable to be persistent when next to me there are people doing what they want, being better paid (with less years of career), when we all work for the same product? Is it really reasonable that I keep being there when, after all, I am almost unmotivated, even if everyday I give my best? Even if everyday I love to be a journalist?

Friends say that it's my fault. They say I am not a social person, that I don't smile enough, that I spend most of the time quiet and then when I speak I am too straight or aggressive, that I refuse to belong to a group, that I don't make convenient friendships, that I still don't understand that it's not enough to have talent, we need to sell it, that I am not a good seller...

But is that what it's all about? Then, probably yes, it's my fault. Because friendship to me is never about convenience. A smile is never about wanting to arrive to a certain place. And definitely I am not a good seller and my words always turn against me. So, am I naive? NO. Not at all. It's just a way of being and probably, yes, I am not a social person.

But if this is my identity and I don't want to lose it, how can I expect to be integrated into a social environment? Well, 3. "By nature we desire incompatible things. We fear isolation. We are a social animal. Yet, at the same time, we fear conformity and the loss of identity. We want both social contact and individuality. We are nonconforming conformists."

And the thing is: despite all my doubts and questions I keep waking up in the morning, going to that newspaper, giving my best, and hoping that my body, that I believe is healthy, will warn me, someday, when it's time to stop (if there is a time to stop).

Right now (3 a.m.) my body is telling me that I need to sleep (next to my Adverb).

I believe that most of the people that read my things don't arrive to the end of the "chronicle", for those that do, I am sorry for being so selfish today. And if by coincidence you feel yourself in the same or similar situation, I do hope things get better for you.

A hug.

Proverb (in a sad and human mood)