domingo, 5 de dezembro de 2010
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, nevermind... You'll not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me: in 20 years you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.
Don't worry about the future, or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind: the kind that blindsides you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.
Do one thing every day that scares you.
Don't be reckless with other people's hearts; don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.
Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long, and in the end, it's only with yourself.
Remember compliments you receive; forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.
Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.
Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives; some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don't.
Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.
Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40; maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself, either. Your choices are half chance, so are everybody else's.
Enjoy your body: use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or what other people think of it; it's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.
Dance...even if you have no where to do it but in your own living room.
Read the directions (even if you don't follow them). Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.
Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings: they're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.
Understand that friends come and go, but what a precious few should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps and geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young.
Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.
Accept certain inalienable truths: prices will rise, politicians will philander, you too will get old; and when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders. Respect your elders.
Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund, maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse, but you never know when either one might run out.
Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you are 40, it will look 85.
Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of wishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts, and recycling it for more than it's worth.
But trust me on the sunscreen...
quinta-feira, 2 de dezembro de 2010
Porque não posso ser também uma daquelas pessoas estúpidas, fúteis, completamente vazias de conteúdo, que apenas se preocupam com o que os outros pensam de si e com a forma como parecem e com o que brilha e lhes parece bonito e pouco complicado?
Ou ser também um daqueles intelectuais cujo prazer se revê em números ou letras ou descobertas ou curiosidades do mundo que não interessam a nenhum comum mortal e que apenas conseguem viver e lidar com a pequena bolha que se cria com o seu autismo desagradável?
Ou ser um amorfo ser do mato ou ser terra inerte e que não pensa e não sente e que, por isso, não quer nada?
Ou morrer e ser recordada hipocritamente por quem diz que quer saber, mas se afasta como se aqui houvesse peste. E tristemente por aqueles que sabem o que fui e tentaram que eu não visse hoje aquilo em que me tornei.
Mas afinal que é isto que sou?