lights.

She kept thinking, over and over again. Memories and thoughts were running through her mind, and she couldn't do anything to stop it. "Nothing's wrong, everything's okay", she thought. Yes, soon everything would be better. But now everything was wrong. She felt trapped, lost in these four walls. These four, cold walls. There was nothing cozy about thinking. Thinking made her sad, nervous. Cold. Thinking was too painful. Yet, she couldn't stop, she was already too lost in her own mind. 

That sad little girl. Everyone could feel her pain. Exposed to love, over and over again, and fooled every fucking time. Silly, naïve little girl. There she was, lying on the floor, her blood dripping from the hole in her chest. Her heart was... nowhere. It was lost somewhere. Somewhere no one ever could find it. The house where she was found was rotting as her breath was disappearing in space. Time stopped. Everything froze. It was dark, not a single light in that place, except for that little candle. It was sad, scary, morbid. Almost like time and space were matching her state of mind, her soul. And she was dying. But she wasn't giving up the fight that easily. So she kept breathing, waiting for a miracle. 

And so she waited. She waited for what seemed to be a whole century. Until... There was a light. The door was closed, so where was it from ? "Maybe there was a broken window somewhere", she thought. She got up and started searching. She dragged herself through long hallways and closed doors until she find it. She put her hand over the open wound - it wasn't bleeding anymore. She was healing, she was alive. And she found it. She found some light. An open window. A new opportunity.

benefícios.

Dia dos namorados. Aquela fatídica altura do ano em que solteiros de todo o mundo deprimem mediante as variadas demonstrações exacerbadas de afecto que observam em cada esquina. Não sejamos pessimistas - aqui entre nós, este dito "dia dos namorados" é ridiculamente sobrevalorizado. Quanto mais penso nisso, mais me convenço que é verdade. Já ninguém sabe namorar. Esta é a era do comer e deitar fora, do "namoro" 2.0. Ninguém quer saber do seu verdadeiro significado.

Como se isso me preocupasse. Convivo demasiado perto com a traição para poder argumentar sobre o verdadeiro significado do amor. Da paixão assolapada. Daqueles clichés, totalmente old-fashioned e deveras entusiasmantes que já todos esqueceram. De qualquer maneira, sei que deve ser muito mais que coraçõezinhos de peluche. Pouco importa.

Como um raio, a nostalgia atinge-me. Relembro com carinho como tudo começou, esforço-me arduamente para esquecer como acabou. De repente, sinto-me satisfeita - a ferida não é nada que não sare. Qualquer coração partido vai sarando, com o tempo, mas a marca fica sempre no devido lugar. Enquanto o momento apropriado não chega, perco-me nos benefícios de uma amizade de longa data (às vezes não tão longa quanto isso), que vêm anexados de pouca roupa, muito suor e cigarros depois de uma noite de pouco ou nenhum sono. A doce liberdade dos solteiros - sem sentir, sem magoar. E sem ser magoado.

De repente, deixa de fazer sentido para a gente solteira deprimir sobre um dia tão comercial como este:

- há sempre um benefício escondido que nos aguarda.