Contrar asteptarilor

A fost o zi lunga. Dar s-a terminat. Dorea sa se spele pe dinti inainte de a se culca, dar mica ei baie portocalie parea atat de trista si mohorata incat nici nu vroia sa intre in ea. Luandu-si cartea, s-a indreptat totusi spre baie, si-a pus pasta pe perie si a inceput sa citeasca.

Era pe balcon. Fuma. Dintr-o data a remarcat un caine negru. La fel ca si...Nu putea sa fie..Oare..Trebuie sa fie al vecinei de sus. Dar nu era. Si ea stia. S-a apropiat de usa blocului. Parea ca era in cautarea a ceva, a cuiva. A incercat sa-l cheme. Parca nici nu a auzit-o. Silueta lui s-a pierdut printre verdele violent de crud al ierbii. Fara ca macar sa ridice ochii, fara ca macar sa o priveasca. Totusi ea l-a chemat. Poate ca nu a auzit-o. Sau nu a vrut sa o auda. Sau vroia sa o raneasca. Tacerea e intotdeauna cea mai dureroasa. Nici macar cele mai crude cuvinte nu pot provoca o suferinta mai profunda. 

Si-a terminat tigara.

S-a inchis usa.

S-a inchis in ea.

Iata ca si-a atins scopul. A terminat-o. Si ce? S-a ales cu ceva? Nu tare. Spera ca finalul tragico-depresiv o va misca. Parca era de gheata. Nu a simtit absolut nimic. Nu se regasea in poveste absolut deloc.

Tocmai a avut un deja-vu. Sau poate ca a mai avut parte de acelasi sentiment mai demult. Acum mult mai demult. Acum mult timp. I-a fost dor de el. I-a fost dor de ea.

Atata timp cat va avea o foaie si un pix nu va fi singura. De fapt niciodata nu a fost singura. Doar in astfel de momente isi da seama de acest lucru  asta. O intelege. Chiar daca altii nu reusesc.

De ce se folosesc cuvintele acesta/aceasta pentru a denumi fiinte umane? Incearca sa evite formulari de genul. Suna prea...impersonal. Dar nici pentru lucruri. Unele lucruri au suflet. Unele lucruri traiesc alaturi de ea; sufera si plang alaturi de ea. 

Crede ca e fericita. Dar nu e. Incearca doar sa se amageasca singura. Poate numara pe degetele de la o mana de cate ori a fost fericita. CU ADEVARAT. Sentimentul autentic de fericire e cel ce ramane impregnat in memorie pentru tot restul vietii: persoanele implicate, circumstantele, cu ce esti imbracata, in ce anotimp, luna, zi, ora, minut, secunda a zilei s-a petrecut. Tot!

Cat de multe ar vrea sa spuna, dar parca are mainile legate, iar mintea ei refuza sa gandeasca. Tot din cauza ei. Asa a invatat-o.

Poate ca vrea ceva ce nu exista. Dar a existat odata, deci propozitia initiala e falsa. Ca nu va mai avea parte de asa ceva, asta e alta poveste. Stie asta. Stie foarte bine ca nu va mai simti niciodata ce a simtit atunci. Se intreaba doar daca mai are sens sa...

Nu! Nu vrea sa scrie decat despre asta. De asta s-a inventat scrisul pentru ca el trebuie sa reflecte tot ce un om nu poate sa rosteasca cu voce tare. Bucuriile se pot exprima cu usurinta. Atunci ce mai ramane? Da! Chiar acel lucru. Toata lumea se plictiseste de tine la un moment dat, fie ca recunoaste sau nu. Dar noi, in stupizenia noastra, credem cadaca vorbim cu cineva toate problemele noastre vor disparea ca ceata in momentul rasaritului soarelui? Daca nu vorbesti tu cu tine, cum sa vorbesti cu altii? Spune-mi!

Silent hunter. Silent strike. Au ceva in comun. A silent hunter strikes silently. Evident. Dar intotdeauna i-a placut mult jocul. Ulterior si formatia/dj-ul/whatever.

Si da! A fost fericita. Obiectele te fac fericita. Cum altfel ai putea fi fericit? Asta daca nu esti un calugar budist. Unele obiecte au o insemnatate mare pentru posesor. Nu inseamna ca esti superficial. Iti gasesti linistea in lucruri care te fac fericit si care stii sigur ca nu te vor rani sau dezamagi vreodata. Dar asta bineinteles ca nu poti sa o intelegi.

I believe in me and I believe that I am not meaningless.

A inceput sa uite. Lucruri care credea ca vor ramane mereu impregnate in memorie incep sa se stearga. Incet dar sigur. Atata doar ca nu stie cu ce va ramane peste o luna, o jumatate de an, 10...Ce anume se va pastra si ce anume se va sterge pentru totdeauna?

Nu a trebuit sa planga. A trebuit sa scrie. In romana. Nu engleza. Ciudat. Niciodata nu a simtit nevoia sa scrie in romana.

Avea dreptate. Nu e ciudata. Nu se intelegea pe sine (ca veni vorba tot nu se intelege) si poate nu se va intelege niciodata. Dar nu e nimic.

Singurele momente cand simte cu adevarat ca exista e atunci cand isi asterne gandurile pe o bucata de hartie. Inceputul e mai greu. Dar apoi cuvintele vin de la sine. Mintea ei functioneaza! Gandeste! Deci nu s-a pierdut pentru eternitate! Pana cand gandurile nu sunt exprimate, nu isi gaseste linistea. Pana cand corpul nu cedeaza din cauza extenuarii, nu poate adormi.

Linistea i-a fost tulburata de o tigara aprinsa aruncata in bezna noptii. Pentru un moment a crezut ca ea a fost cea care a scapat-o. Dar inca se afla intre degetele ei. Nu i s-a parut. A fost real.

Pana si el a fost real. Ciudat. Acum nu imi mai aduc aminte de el. Sau nu vreau. Nu acum. Nu e momentul.

Personal work pt.4

Illusions and dreams

She was heading towards the door and accidentally glanced through the dirty window. The same black dog was lying on the concrete. She initially thought that he was dead and her heart filled with an indescribable sorrow. Or was he waiting for somebody? She approached the poor creature and it suddenly stood up. He seemed to recognize her. She smiled and wanted to pet him; she knew that a dog’s back was a safe bet, but she aimed at petting his face, carefully avoiding his ears. But the dog backed away. “I’m just a stranger for him” she thought and sighed. However, she didn’t want to give up. Slowly, the dog enjoyed the social interaction and looked straight into Emma’s eyes. “Hello again, you.” Emma had seen him for the first time the night before; same time, same place. It was as if she was reliving the previous night. The dog accompanied them to the next bus stop. Whenever they stopped, the dog stopped too. But it was different today: she was alone. There she was: sitting in the bus stop and asking herself whether she should try and touch him again. Of course she had a second attempt. The dog wasn’t backing away anymore and he lifted his crystal eyes at Emma. She quickly checked her left and right side. For a moment she thought that he was there. She then walked slowly towards the crosswalk and she saw that he was following her. She smiled again and reached for her Pall Mall. After lighting her cigarette she searched for his eyes. He disappeared. The street was empty. No sign of movement. Maybe she will never see him again.

She was sitting outside. It wasn’t cold outside for she was wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. The garden seemed beautiful, but empty. Like her heart. She suddenly decided to sit on the grass. Every blade of grass was loaded with fresh, cold drops. She was anxious to feel each and every one of them on her tired and bruised arms. She lied down with her head facing the cloudless sky. The first drops gently soaked the cloth of her shirt and she instantly felt relaxed. But she then decided to roll over. After doing so, she felt a faded pain on her stomach; she ignored it. She rolled over once more and the pain became more striking. After every roll, the pain was getting stronger. When it was more than she could take it, she decided to examine her body on the outside. Her yellow element tee was painted red and there were tiny holes here and there. She didn’t understand what had happened to her. She tried to touch the crimson stains but she immediately withdrew her fingers. Her entire body was covered in wounds: thousands of tiny thorns were scattered throughout her entire body. How could this be possible? She was sitting on grass, there were no rose bushes nearby. Words are not enough to describe the horror she felt when looking on her right. The ground and the green leaves of the rose bushes were soaked in her blood; the remaining thorns were blood stained as well. She felt warm tears rolling down her cheeks. She was alone, bleeding and hurting.

Usless thoughts of a human mind

Stii cum e sa te simti extenuat? Din toate punctele de vedere. As vrea sa fiu nepasatoare, sa ma gandesc la cat de mirobolanta e viata asta, ca totul e roz-bombon cu picatele, dar nu pot. NU POT! Asa sunt eu. „Vesnic nemultumita” mi se spune. Dar acum stiu ca nu e asa. Pentru ca vreau mai mult de la viata mea. Nu vreau sa aleg comfortul in detrimentul fericirii mele. M-am saturat sa fac pe plac altora, sa ma gandesc mereu la fericirea lor. Si a mea? Unde e fericirea mea? Nu stiu. S-a evaporat [asta daca a existat vreodata cu adevarat]


I keep it on the inside because it's the safest place to hide.

We are all incredibly lonely and all we want is somebody to pay attention and tell us we're beautiful.

Sometimes I need to get lost in order to find myself.

I was never really insane, except for the moments when my heart was touched.

Never mind my intentions. I can have pretty weird desires and ideas in my head sometimes. But I realize that they are stupid only after I have completed them. Some of them are so useless. I wish I could bury them somewhere, where nobody would find them, not even myself. It’s only my fault. I keep remembering details. A word, a sound, a gesture…who can tell? Something that simply caught my attention and got stuck into my head.

I’ve done it once, I can’t do it again. Some things are meant to happen once in a lifetime. And you realize that only after they’re over. I used to be so alive and…different. In a good way. I know I’ve changed since, but I honestly feel more lost than back then. I can’t seem to find myself in nothing.