Equilibrado sobre o parapeito da velha ponte, ele sentiu o ar quente e abafado daquela noite de verão empurrando-o para a beirada. Duzentos metros abaixo, escondido no escuro, o rio chamava, sussurrando traiçoeiramente. Ele imaginava as pedras pontiagudas no leito do rio, já preparadas para a sua queda.
Chegara a hora.
A vida fora cruel com ele desde a sua infância — mas de uma forma discreta, quase gentil. Não houvera nenhuma tragédia para que os outros sentissem pena dele, nenhuma perda traumática cuja memória poderia ajudá-lo a chorar até conseguir pegar no sono nas noites solitárias. Não houvera nada impressionante — a sua vida tinha sido uma longa e monótona sequência de dias cinzentos seguidos de noites cinzentas, sem nem uma estrela para clarear o horizonte.
E agora ele estava cansado. Não amargurado, não desesperado, nem mesmo com pena de si mesmo; só cansado. Cansado de ter que assistir os outros estragando tudo, e depois ter que tentar juntar os cacos e arrumar a bagunça. Cansado de lutar noite e dia para manter sua família segura (em todos os sentidos desta palavra tão rica em significados), e depois ser acusado de tudo o que deu errado. Cansado de gastar toda sua força e seus recursos para mantê-los unidos, e depois sentir o enorme peso de estar sozinho no meio de estranhos conhecidos. Cansado da vida, cansado da luta, cansado de si mesmo.
Ele se imaginou dizendo a Rudyard Kipling: "Eu segui seu conselho e me tornei um homem — mas você não me avisou que seria tão terrivelmente solitário aqui!" E imediatamente ele respondeu a si mesmo, naquela sua mania peculiar: "Seria pior se eu fosse popular!" Porque não era realmente a solidão que o cansava. Nem era a falta de reconhecimento. Para ser honesto, ele nem sabia o que era — o que ele sabia é que ele não suportava a idéia de mais um dia de lutas e esforços por aquilo no qual ele cria.
E ele sabia que não conseguiria viver sem lutar! Outros conseguiam (parece que todo mundo conseguia!), mas ele não. Para ele, a única forma de viver era como ele sempre tentara viver: fazendo o que precisava ser feito, sem desistir.
Sim, esta era a única maneira de viver.
"E isso não é viver, meu caro!" ele disse para si mesmo. "Isso parece mais com morrer lentamente, dia a dia!"
Ele estava quase sussurrando agora: "Então vamos lá, acabe com isso! Um passo à frente, e seus problemas terminaram!"
Debatendo-se com seus pensamentos, ele entendeu que sua decisão já estava tomada. Na verdade, percebeu, desde o começo nunca houvera dúvida — desde quando, umas três horas atrás, ele deixou todos discutindo entre si, e saiu de casa.
A decisão se tornava mais nítida na sua mente, e trazia consigo uma convicção bem definida: ele tinha a coragem necessária para colocar esta decisão em prática. Não havia nenhum medo, nenhuma dúvida. Seria como todas as outras batalhas que ele havia enfrentado: não se hesita para ver se é possível ou não vencer o desafio, simplesmente se faz aquilo que precisa ser feito!
A clareza da situação, e a certeza da sua decisão, lhe trouxeram um grande alívio. Ele sentiu o peso de mil vidas cair dos seus ombros, despedaçar-se nas rochas lá embaixo, e ser levado embora rapidamente pela correnteza voraz. Ele ouviu o vento assobiando uma marcha fúnebre, enquanto as trevas enterravam sua tristeza, cabisbaixas. Dando uma última e misteriosa olhada para as trevas abaixo da ponte, ele virou-se e pulou.
O parapeito era mais baixo do que ele calculara, e ele se surpreendeu com a rapidez com que seus pés atingiram o asfalto. Sentindo o chão firme debaixo dos pés, ele viu a Lua saindo de trás da nuvem onde estivera escondida, assustada, e as árvores balançando os galhos em aplauso. Curvando-se rapidamente para sua platéia, e imediatamente sentindo vergonha do próprio ato, ele voltou para casa.
Cansado ainda, e triste. Mas uma tristeza com sombras de alegria e orgulho.
Ele se pegou falando, desta vez em voz alta: "Sobrevivo para lutar outra vez!" E imediatamente seu coração lhe respondeu: "Não seja melodramático, idiota! A luta continua; continue lutando!"
Apesar da vitória, ele não sentia euforia, nem mesmo um pequeno lampejo de esperança. Mas ele sabia que acabara de ganhar a maior vitória da sua vida, e que, mesmo havendo ainda muitas batalhas pela frente, a guerra havia sido vencida.
Showing posts with label short-story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short-story. Show all posts
Monday, 1 April 2019
Sunday, 11 August 2013
The Bridge
Balancing precariously on the stone wall that ran along the side of the old bridge, he felt the hot, tepid air urging him to jump. Two hundred feet below, out of sight in the darkness, he could hear the river calling him, and imagined the jagged rocks in the river bed peering upwards, trying to pierce the darkness above their heads.
Life had been cruel to him all along — but in a sort of quiet, almost gentle way. There had been no tragedies to make people feel sorry for him, no heart-breaking loss whose memory he could use to cry himself to sleep during the lonely nights. It had just been a long, monotonous succession of grey days followed by grey nights, with not a star to lighten the horizon.
He was tired. Not angry, not despaired, not feeling sorry for himself — just tired. Tired of having to watch everyone make a mess of things, and then quietly try and pick up the pieces and glue them together. Tired of fighting day and night to keep his family safe (in every sense of that multifaceted word), and then being considered the cause of all that had gone wrong. Tired of spending all his strength and resources to keep them all together, and then feeling the awful weight of being alone amongst strange, familiar people. Tired of all that he endured — yet not in a selfish, self-pitying way.
He imagined himself telling Rudyard Kipling: “I followed your advice and became a man — but you didn’t warn me it would be so desperately lonely here!” And then he was answering himself, in that silly habit of his: “It would be worse if I were popular!” It wasn’t really the loneliness that weighed him down. It wasn’t the lack of recognition. To be honest, he didn’t really know what it was. But he knew he just couldn’t bear the prospect of another day of fighting and struggling for what he believed was right. And he knew he couldn’t live without fighting! Others could (it seemed everyone could!), but not him. The only way for him to live was as he had always tried to live: doing what had to be done, without ever giving up.
Yes, that was the only way he could live. “And that is certainly not living, mate!”, he was telling himself. “That is more like killing yourself slowly, day by day!” He was almost whispering now: “So come on, get it over with! A little step forward, and your troubles are over!”
Even as he struggled with his thoughts, he knew that his decision was already taken. It had been, all along — ever since he left them all arguing among themselves three hours earlier, and stormed out of the house. And as that realization slowly took shape in his mind, it brought with it another certainty: he had the courage to put that decision into action. There was really no fear, no doubts. It would be like all the other battles he had fought: you don’t stop to think whether you can do it or not, you just do what has to be done!
He felt the weight of a thousand lives fall off his shoulders, and strike the rocks below, being swiftly carried away by the raging current. He heard the wind singing a plaintive eulogy as the darkness greedily buried his woes. With a last, strange look at the darkness below, he jumped.
The stone wall was lower than he expected, and his feet met the road with a thump. The Moon reappeared from behind the cloud where it had been hiding, and the trees silently waved their bows, congratulating him. He bowed to his silent spectators, feeling somewhat foolish for doing so. Then he resolutely made his way homeward.
Tired, and sad. But in a kind of happy, proud way. He heard himself say, out loud this time: “I live to fight another day!” And immediately his heart answered: “Don’t be melodramatic, stupid! Just get on with it!”
It brought him no elation, not even a little glimmer of joy. But he knew he had just won his greatest victory ever, and that even though there were still many battles ahead, the war had been won.
Life had been cruel to him all along — but in a sort of quiet, almost gentle way. There had been no tragedies to make people feel sorry for him, no heart-breaking loss whose memory he could use to cry himself to sleep during the lonely nights. It had just been a long, monotonous succession of grey days followed by grey nights, with not a star to lighten the horizon.
He was tired. Not angry, not despaired, not feeling sorry for himself — just tired. Tired of having to watch everyone make a mess of things, and then quietly try and pick up the pieces and glue them together. Tired of fighting day and night to keep his family safe (in every sense of that multifaceted word), and then being considered the cause of all that had gone wrong. Tired of spending all his strength and resources to keep them all together, and then feeling the awful weight of being alone amongst strange, familiar people. Tired of all that he endured — yet not in a selfish, self-pitying way.
He imagined himself telling Rudyard Kipling: “I followed your advice and became a man — but you didn’t warn me it would be so desperately lonely here!” And then he was answering himself, in that silly habit of his: “It would be worse if I were popular!” It wasn’t really the loneliness that weighed him down. It wasn’t the lack of recognition. To be honest, he didn’t really know what it was. But he knew he just couldn’t bear the prospect of another day of fighting and struggling for what he believed was right. And he knew he couldn’t live without fighting! Others could (it seemed everyone could!), but not him. The only way for him to live was as he had always tried to live: doing what had to be done, without ever giving up.
Yes, that was the only way he could live. “And that is certainly not living, mate!”, he was telling himself. “That is more like killing yourself slowly, day by day!” He was almost whispering now: “So come on, get it over with! A little step forward, and your troubles are over!”
Even as he struggled with his thoughts, he knew that his decision was already taken. It had been, all along — ever since he left them all arguing among themselves three hours earlier, and stormed out of the house. And as that realization slowly took shape in his mind, it brought with it another certainty: he had the courage to put that decision into action. There was really no fear, no doubts. It would be like all the other battles he had fought: you don’t stop to think whether you can do it or not, you just do what has to be done!
He felt the weight of a thousand lives fall off his shoulders, and strike the rocks below, being swiftly carried away by the raging current. He heard the wind singing a plaintive eulogy as the darkness greedily buried his woes. With a last, strange look at the darkness below, he jumped.
The stone wall was lower than he expected, and his feet met the road with a thump. The Moon reappeared from behind the cloud where it had been hiding, and the trees silently waved their bows, congratulating him. He bowed to his silent spectators, feeling somewhat foolish for doing so. Then he resolutely made his way homeward.
Tired, and sad. But in a kind of happy, proud way. He heard himself say, out loud this time: “I live to fight another day!” And immediately his heart answered: “Don’t be melodramatic, stupid! Just get on with it!”
It brought him no elation, not even a little glimmer of joy. But he knew he had just won his greatest victory ever, and that even though there were still many battles ahead, the war had been won.
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