Whenever I’m in a bed with a pillow, I do cuddle and kiss it. I’ve never cuddled or kissed my pillow because I’ve never owned one, or a bed, or a house, for that matter.
I started doing it in my early twenties, when I began to think seriously of dating, relationships and sex, and whether I could do anything to have a chance to ever experience those parts of life. I hadn’t yet realized how good it feels—though it’s probably nothing compared with actually cuddling someone, judging by the few-and-far-between times I’ve accidentally enjoyed a brief touch of female skin, not counting family members or anyone too young or too old—and the main reason to do it was that I was afraid of forgetting to pursue the goal of one day really being with a woman, as it seemed all too easy to let the commitments of study, work, family and what have you exclude anything else from my life.
Maybe I should have known better. Now I have ruined my education, spent a lot of shameful years back at my parents’ home, and ended up in a situation in which it’s doubtful I’ll ever do anything worthwhile. Had I been born in a less squeamish world, I’d have long been left to die. And, since I have nothing to offer, I’ll never have anyone to cuddle in bed—only a pillow for now, and it isn’t even mine.
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The red lake has been forgotten. A dust devil stuns you long enough to shroud forever those last shards of wisdom. The breeze rocking this forlorn wasteland whispers in your ears, “Não resta mais que uma sombra”.