Só mais uma postagem que não vai acrescentar nada na vida de ninguém

OLHA QUE POLIGLOTA, BRASIL! ME LEVA PRA GRINGA! Brinks. Essa é a crônica mais maconhada, estilo Macunaíma, que eu já fiz na vida. Não tem nenhum sentido profundo, só gastei meu inglês. E pra quê sentido profundo, né? Essa porta me ensinou várias coisas, uma delas: nem tudo é complexo, cheio de significado, lindu di bunitu.
As vezes é só uma porta meio merda, e você ainda morre nela. Obrigada, vida.


The Door

I wandered a bit, only to stumble upon a door. In advance, this is not a tale about a magic door, one so powerful it could unravel all the world's mysteries and stuff - it was just a door. In details, it wasn't wooden, classic, red or  carved with beautiful patterns - it was made of brass, covered by an intense cupper-red-rust, you could almost feel its bloody taste. As expected, it seemed to connect nothing to nowhere, as useless as it appeared.
Hours later, sitting in my bed and sipping old tea, it hit me. What in heaven's sake would be so interesting about a simple, falling-to-pieces door? That's it. Nothing. It is a blank canvas, a shallow philosophy of a mediocre spiv. Oh, is that it? I didn't know also.
In the spent of many weeks, I went to check on the door. 'I need to feel it, I need to find it's meaning', the stupid girl cried. Taking a deeper look, listing all the door's characteristics, I found things such as cavities that once was made by a bullet, scratches in the bottom (a cat's art, I suppose), picturesque patterns made from rust, and some old political propaganda - probably as shallow as the deep meaning of the door.
I decided to call it Jackë. I lied down, reaching my inner believer restlessly. I was able to believe in miracle hair mascaras, conspiracy theories that Jaime was going to kill Cersei for several reasons, buzzfeed quizzes, but I just couldn't believe the door's potential of becoming something greater.
I got shot three minutes later, some guy wanted to sell my sneakers.

Maria Teresa Gonçalves