The last romantic

Tércio Heitor de Sousa Moreira

I keep part of my romanticism in a jar of butter, and every morning it is commonplace in the absence or presence of caffeine.
But make no mistake; this is not the beginning of the story. In the beginning, romanticism was carried on the brim of a hat, and sometimes I fell in an attempt to fly unexpectedly. I was young, he was naughty.
I thought it best, therefore, to take it in my pocket and here and there in mild weather I would present it. And it was sometimes fearfully shown.
And whoever looked at him with interest was quick to forget him. So I kept it in a shoe box at the bottom of the closet.
People came and said to me – it’s cold and boorish. I met people around me who were walking barefoot by nature, others who also kept boxes at the bottom of the closet, under the bed or in the attic, and still others who had long since disposed of the cardboard cobblestone. And I lived for a long time believing I knew the purpose of having a shoe box.
Until one day someone came from afar and, without my seeing, rummaged through my closet, opened the shoe box and, glimpsed, took care of what was inside. In fact, for months this was repeated until she returned from where she came and took with her what was stored in cardboard in the back of the closet. Shortly thereafter it was my turn to pack my bags. I moved without a box.
I met new places, new people. Until one fine day I start receiving letters. I read them. They are like instructions. I follow them and renew the essence I used to keep at the bottom of the closet. However, neither the recipient nor the sender knew where and how to store such content.
At this point, I already had a box and also a cupboard when I decided to abandon such content near a ladder.
I hear clumsy footsteps on the steps, it won’t be long before the person with the short steps goes down. Then a stumble occurs. The essence is spread everywhere, throughout the conversation, on any good day.
As days go by, conversations, months, I realize that she really knows what to do with what was once in the back of my closet. I spread it around the corners of my house, my clothes, my words and it brings its essence and shares it with me.
But part of the romanticism I keep in a jar of guava. Now I know that shoe boxes are only for shoes.

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