Insolvable Matters

Over highly caloric french fries and cheap beer, my friends and I spent part of the night complaining about the lack of prince-charming material in the market (at least for us). We had previously had a heated discussion over the weakness of political institutions in Brazil, so we needed to fuss about a lighter topic.
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I have got to be honest – we are quite likable. And smart! I can’t figure what’s wrong, really. Perhaps we failed to embody the can’t-go-wrong combination of ignorance coupled with striking beauty, or exceptional brains with striking beauty. If either happens to be the issue, I’m doomed: I’m no Bündchen or Einstein-Bündchen.
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By the end of the night the girls and I had shared good laughs, but we arrived at no definite conclusions. We went back home wondering what might (really) be wrong with us. And politicians.

About a Boy

This little brown-haired boy was probably eight. He sat next to me, commanded by a grandma who had exclaimed in embarrassingly high notes, “There, why don’t you sit next to this beautiful girl?” I figured the cute boy would want to bury his face somewhere, but he just followed the orders and remained silent. I actually felt relieved that he chose not to yell “she-is-horrible-and-I-do-not-want-to-sit-by-her” in protest to the voice of authority. It seems to me that at this stage in life, kids do not quite understand or care about the social rules which often demand us to restrain from being boldly honest.

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I wondered if he wanted to sit by the window. Did he keep glancing at me or at the world outside? The later hypothesis made me feel like I was supposed to switch seats with him. Predictably enough, just when I was about to make him this proposition, grandma called him up and they got off the bus. As my eyes wandered, looking at nothing in particular, they were caught by the sight of the middle-school boy turning to wave me goodbye. I waved back and smiled, amazed with I don't know what.

Minding My Own Mind

After a pleasantly insightful conversation over coffee and soft background music, it struck me that my approach to life might not have changed as much in the past three years. In my late teens, I really believed my unquiet spirit would only be satisfied if it was fed in the highest academic environment there could be. I assumed that being intellectually challenged would provide an endlessly sublime experience. I really couldn’t picture myself doing something other than studying in the U.S. In the end, despite all my efforts, I never got to have this experience. It’s been a year since those academic plans went down, but I no longer mourn about this – I am certain that I wouldn’t have found what I’m still looking for at Harvard or Yale. Today I query myself, how did it once occur to me that happiness depended on having access to Ivy League education? Perhaps I just attributed the achievement of some kind of enlightenment to being drunk on intense intellectual activity.
Lately I’ve been searching for answers elsewhere, but I find myself haunted by the thought that I might still be pursuing the wrong things, even if the reasons are right. Thoughts and more thoughts, they never leave me! I can’t help rationalizing just about everything. Does the reliance on a mind that conceptualizes feelings of compassion and love indicate the existence of a dry heart? I would hate to admit this, but it seems like I have become too comfortable with the feeling of melancholy that follows reflective thought-processing. What on Earth has happened to me?