We end up loving people for their defects. When you live long enough with someone, you start adjusting your life to their rhythms. And it’s ok — if everything’s all right, the process is usually mutual.
So, our life starts shaping after the habits of the people we love. Their passions, their little idiosyncrasies: we start absorbing them, getting accustomed to them.
It’s like when you live for a long time in the same place. Maybe the tap leaks a little water, the old lady upstairs keeps the TV incredibly loud all the time and the paint is a somewhat stained on the walls; but it’s home. …
I’m not really sure at this point about what I’m going to post. Probably it’s just a way to test what can be done and how far my linguistic skills will lead me in writing a free-form article about some yet-to-be-defined subject.
Writing. A form of art. One that will earn you respect. “You know, I’m a writer” at the parties sounds much cooler than “I’m a computer programmer”. Probably at this stage it won’t earn you much more than respect, but it’s already something.
I’m not really sure about why I like writing. Most of the times, I ended up writing something just as a form of catharsis. Bad things happen to you, you put them on paper. It works like a valve, it relieves you from the pain of containing all that pressure inside you. …