readersnoopy287 29/02/2024
Todos nós estamos enclausurados na angústia da falta de reciprocidade.
Escreverei aqui parte de uma carta que escrevi a um amigo, no momento que conclui o livro e o recomendei.
"Although I don't know if I idealize too much, for me, love remains inexplicable.
I was granted the ability to love unreachable people, and aware that I will never achieve the same importance for them as they have for me. Still, I harbor this feeling, aware of the disparity.
If only I could control my heart by refraining from these emotions, it would be a relief. However, in a brief accident, I realize that I am already deeply involved, becoming something greater than an arbitrary choice not to love. The admiration for the simple act of breathing and speaking takes me over completely, and, in the blink of an eye, I long to meet her again, to fall in love again.
Just by narrating my love, her image invades my mind, and my body chills just by mentioning her name. Even though I know that it is an unattainable and non-reciprocal love, I persist in the hope of one day receiving the same devotion. It's as if, at these times, I become a child at the window, shaking my feet and making requests to the gods of love for this love to be reciprocated.
The opportunity to glimpse requited love is offered at every moment. It's the subtle smile when faced with seemingly insignificant words, which, in our minds, turn into dreams, speeches, echoing throughout the body over days and weeks. The rapid beat in the chest makes us briefly wonder whether the heart could actually jump out of the chest. A pulse that reverberates in such an overwhelming way, that there is no choice but to pulse love through even the smallest vessels, transforming into love and devotion before we even realize it.
When we confront reality, we resemble Werther, lost, begging for the greatest forces in the universe to intervene and bring love into our arms.
Unrequited love is too dangerous to bear for long, penetrating deep to the core of our existence, where the pain is unbearable. Submitting yourself to the pain of not being loved is, without a doubt, more distressing than assuming such a possibility. Living with the contempt I feel for my own feelings is a difficult task, as I prefer to suffer rather than denounce such love, but the prospect of the contempt that the loved one may feel is even more corrosive.
Werther, more than anyone else, understands this painful reality that we are subject to."