A man at the tram stop
I loved writing when I was a child. I used to create all these stories inspired by the comic books I used to read and I felt really proud of myself when my teacher read them out loud to the whole class. Over the years, what used to be a fun, creative activity became a bureaucratic exercise.
In high school, I had to start writing about themes I didn't care about in a very specific format to get into the university. There was no creative writing at all in my engineering graduation, and throughout my career in Finance, the closest I got to creativity was choosing the colours in my PPT presentations. Now with AI, I just have to write a prompt with unpolished ideas and it will write me a work document in seconds, which I just need to revise and refine.
I started this blog trying to disconnect from my phone, but this is also a way to reconnect with writing, a childhood passion that faded over the years. I have been keeping journals since my early 20s, but these are more like free therapy than literary practice.
The good thing about stop using your phone is that you start paying more attention to everything else around you. Small architectural details in the houses you walk by everyday, the leaves slowly becoming yellow, the people you cross paths with in the train, walking around town or sitting across the table from you at a restaurant. And you can write about them.
Last week I was fascinated by this guy who was waiting for the tram when I was heading back home from my French class. It was 9am and he was there, just smoking a cigarette, looking up at the sky with his eyes closed as if there was no tomorrow. I had one of my journals with me, and I tried to capture that scene into words. Below is what came out of this exercise. It's in Portuguese, as it felt more natural to write that in my mother tongue. This was a fun exercise, and I'll try to start doing this more often.
Uma boina surrada impedia que o sol de Setembro chegasse-lhe aos aos olhos. Mantinha-os, mesmo assim, semi-cerrados, com a cabeça inclinada pra cima enquanto dava um trago profundo em seu cigarro. A fumaça preenchia-lhe os pulmões em uma meditatação narcótica às 9h da manhã. Esperava o próximo tram, onde poderia sentar aquecido, já que os sapatos gastos não impediam o ar frio de outono de gelar-lhe os dedos.
Apagou o cigarro na lata de lixo mais próxima, um cilindro de metal com uma pequena portinhola à frente, temporariamente trancada à espera dos funcionários do serviço de limpeza que viriam esvaziá-la. Tirou então a caixa de cigarros vazia do bolso e passou a dobrá-la com o cuidado de quem faz um origami, até que estivesse fina o suficiente para entrar no vão entre a lata de lixo e a portinhola. Deslizou a caixa de papel dobrado de baixo pra cima pelo pequeno vão, abrindo a porta que o separava de seu tesouro.
Com cuidado, retirou a bandeja onde se acumulavam os restos de bituca de cigarro das milhares de pessoas que diariamente passavam por ali. Selecionou aquelas não totalmente consumidas pelas brasas, reminiscências dos apressados que não puderam esperar pelo próximo tram.
Com os espólios no bolso, fechou novamente o lixo e embarcou no tram que chegava à plataforma. Ficaria ali rodando, aquecido e esquecido, até a hora de comer.