Beer, Sport, Work, Women

As I walk, two dancing lights play on the wall beside me. I look into the courtyard where they're coming from, but I can't see what's creating them. I catch another glimpse, then keep walking. To my left, sunlight spills in. It illuminates me softly.

I return to my thoughts. To my daughter who told me I can't be a woman. I have a beard. How can I be one if I have a beard?

There's a contrast between what I feel as a person and the visible signs that can't be denied. They're evident to everyone, but especially to me. All it takes is a mirror to remind me that I belong to a sex I feel less and less a part of.

I wonder if this is just another one of the many crazy ideas I've had and moved on from in my life. But when I filter myself through this lens, it makes sense of a lot of things I've done or moments when I've felt bad.

When I painted, I was afraid to delve into something I was afraid of. That's why I stopped. I still can't say exactly what it was. I don't know if I'll ever be able to. What I'm going through is a journey with no end in sight.

I painted women. I painted their stories. I can't say if I was painting something of them or of myself. At this point, it all becomes very confusing.

I know deep down that it's not important what you identify as. The label that describes you. But what you feel and how you live. But I'd like to know myself better and try to feel better than I do now. That's why I dig and try to understand.

Some things are clear to me, though. I can say that my constant desire to be with women isn't about trying to get with them. It's something instinctive. Like the desire to be with someone who's like me. Someone who can be themselves around me and understand what I'm saying.

I agree with those who tell me that ultimately, mine is a simplification. That it could also happen with men to be able to share what they are. I agree. But something is always missing.

I think it's a mix of adorable fragility and strong sensitivity. Even when I say things like this, people tell me I'm oversimplifying. I don't claim to speak the truth. I'm just trying to be as honest as possible with myself and those who read what I write.

I absorb emotions and maybe I feed on them. Maybe that's why I can feel the world around me. Maybe I seek them out for that reason. I feel constant pain in my gut and I should probably be as cold as possible to feel better. But I would feel fake.

Like when I'm with the fathers I have to stay with. Dinner table. Mothers and fathers. I'm on the wrong side of the table. I always feel like I'm on the wrong side of the table.

But I repeat myself: I’m a man. My body tells me I’m a man. Maybe. Sometimes. I don’t know.

So… what is a man?

I know that men don’t cry. Men drink alcohol but they don’t cry. They have to be strong and avoid complexity. They do their job. They think about their jobs and their career. They don’t know what their children do and they don’t want to do home stuff. They don’t suffer and they aren’t ready. They don’t send messages. They don’t talk about topics that aren’t work-related. Better if related to their work. They are dirty. They like sports. They eat food. They grill. They drink alcohol. They drink beer. They laugh. They talk about women. They don’t like to chat. They aren’t in their children’s class WA chats. These chats are for women only. They drive. They play video games. They win. Sometimes they lose. They prefer to win. But if they don’t win, it isn’t their fault.

Okay... I've finished my mental review. Remember. You're a man. You can do this.

In the end, it's not complex. It's a mix of beer, sports, work, and women. It's primitive. I just have to regress.

I look at the man to my left. I look at the man to my right. I laugh. I don't know what they're talking about. But I don't think it's difficult. I breathe. I laugh. From the few words I understand, they're talking about beer. Probably they'll talk about work soon. I wait. I don't have much to say about beer. I don't drink alcohol. Better skip the topic. I laugh.

In case they don't understand why I'm laughing, they'll think I've been drinking. So even though I don't drink, I'd fit in. I laugh. I try to make everyone understand that I'm laughing.

They change the subject. They talk about work. Here I'm more prepared. Maybe.

What does a man say about work?

He's usually frustrated. A man knows how to do his job. A man would do his job well if they let him do it. A man does his job and earns money. A man does his job because he cares. He does it with other men. The other men aren't like him. He knows how to do his job well. If there are women, they work well. Even if they are women. In their workplace, it's full of hotties. It used to be better before. And here I get confused. I laugh. Was it better because he worked better or because there were more hotties? I laugh again. A man appreciates that I laugh if he talks about the topics mentioned earlier.

Then they move on to sports. For the moment, I've guessed the sequence. I have my roommate in the hospital to thank for sports. He taught me to appreciate Formula 1. I know Formula 1. But no other man follows it. It's a sport for old people, they tell me. Okay. So the only sport I follow is for old people. Okay. Should I laugh or not? In doubt, I laugh. At least I'm okay with the beer theme.