Eu não escrevo mais. Não sei o que é, se falta de tempo ou de vergonha na cara, mas não venho mais aqui. E, quando venho, é para um desabafo insone. E curto.
Muito curto.
quarta-feira, 21 de novembro de 2007
segunda-feira, 12 de novembro de 2007
Tired
3 o'clock in the morning. I'm having a very important test in college in a few hours and I don't want to study, sleep or write in portuguese.
Enough. I'm through of this year. OK, I have no money problems, an awesome family, some awesome friends, a beautiful girlfriend. I love them, they love me, nobody's sick, bla, bla, bla...
Enough, nevertheless. It has been a nightmare. Literally – I'm having constant bad dreams about the uncertainty of my professional choice. I had a working experience, with an impolite illiterate woman, doing a job a 4 year old could perform. When I quit, people started casting me ugly looks, as if they were saying I shouldn't give up at any cost. Sometimes I think they're right. But how come I'm only 20 years old and are already so deeply comitted to a career I'm not even sure I want? That strange feeling that the journalist is the prostitute of mass media companies keeps haunting me. There is a difference, a professor said to me once, between selling your work and selling your conscience; but how tangible is that difference? And, worse, will I be able to afford myself – and a family, perhaps – if I keep my conscience intact?
Don't know. Anyways, time to get some sleep.
Enough. I'm through of this year. OK, I have no money problems, an awesome family, some awesome friends, a beautiful girlfriend. I love them, they love me, nobody's sick, bla, bla, bla...
Enough, nevertheless. It has been a nightmare. Literally – I'm having constant bad dreams about the uncertainty of my professional choice. I had a working experience, with an impolite illiterate woman, doing a job a 4 year old could perform. When I quit, people started casting me ugly looks, as if they were saying I shouldn't give up at any cost. Sometimes I think they're right. But how come I'm only 20 years old and are already so deeply comitted to a career I'm not even sure I want? That strange feeling that the journalist is the prostitute of mass media companies keeps haunting me. There is a difference, a professor said to me once, between selling your work and selling your conscience; but how tangible is that difference? And, worse, will I be able to afford myself – and a family, perhaps – if I keep my conscience intact?
Don't know. Anyways, time to get some sleep.
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