Bringing the pictures at dawn. Places to go, people to forget. When I think of friendship I get this strange feeling of pure joy mixed with melancholia. Not because my definition of friendship evolves around emotions, because it ends without them. I needed someone to rely on and I had friends. They were like a family to me. In fac, they were more than a family. Terribly flawed, with broken wings such as myself, I could bear the thought of tomorrow through the eyes of others. I could bring my dreams closer to realisation knowing that there were others near me who could breathe the same majestic air of failure. Promises of a new life brought upon us by the new overwhelming possibilities ahead of us. Chaotic, meaningful, deliberately harmful and respectful notion of time, I bid you make one exception and save some lost souls! 
Places to confirm our weakness, feelings to improve our behaviour, girls to make us start again. Comparison throuh the lens of an all seeying eye. Leaving me alone, near the doors of fate. I couldnțt enter. I just lay back, smoked a ciggarette and waited. I didn't know I'll wait forever. Nor that my wait will be so much like a broken leaf's trail through the air. I had no exception in my mind for you. Yet you came in. Hope.
For another lifetime, my thoughts spread into words and numbers like falling stars caught the glimpse of my vision. And so I was older. Not old, just older. Perfect harmony, symetry, words, repeating in my mind like endless whispers on a broken cassete recorder. Fleeing from the rain, under the shadow of a barricade, leaving thoughts to wander, aimlessly, displeasing, profoundly beatuiful. Times of joy and times of neutrality. Times of monotonous sorrow. And times of shadow and decay. Shall I be alone with the Gods again? Shall I smile and taste from the same cup of tranquility and oblivious mystery? Bring them in. Let the light creep upon my heart. Not a word of  doubt from the masters above. The pavement, stronger than our bodies, bent under the pressure of our dreams. Piercing through the veil, I was no longer a ghost. 
Climbing stairs, prying on households, I came upon the forest's shadow. But it felt like a home to me. Cranking up the volume and breathing evaporating fumes from nearby, I waited. We waited. It never let me down. My blood, my pressure inside my veins held a secret I couldn't resist to unveil. Carressing it was a hard task. But I was a harsh task master. So it begun. My unfolding journey towards the end of  the earth. Towards the end of oneself. But I was not alone. I was not going to die alone. And that made me feel safe. Without knowing, without knwing what? I knew everything I wanted as long as IO didn't know the truth. How foolish. How wise. How distasteful might it seem to others, rambling and gambling and dancing in this twisted game of fate alongside others. Parteners of decaying youth. Misfortune was our guide. Our promises were impoverished stars. Made of shrapnell and steel. The fire burning in my heart like a furnace. Melting away all impurities, crafting a diamond from the bones of an angel. Heavy fumes, heavy nights, lingering in paradise for a long while, then retreating to our dark homes. Where stories of malfeasance and disturbance crept over the walls. We had to survive another night, to be alive another day. And so on, and so on. Lying was bad for the soul. But poor advice is even worse. I lied about my condition. We lied about it. Preferring the sweet taste of a bent truth was not that hard to me. It was harder to live with demons. But the real monsters were inside my head.
Then it all went down. The dam broke loose. The beer spilled. And reaction to the casual world finally caught it's pace. Our tankyard lives trailed by the creeping tallons of a thousand fingers. Pointing, chanting. Evil. they are evil. We should be evil. Why not? 
Forget me, remember me, live me drown me, lie to me, place me, displace me, unfold me, steal me, kill me, rape me, trace me, collect me, disturb me, listen to me. You are not going anywhere, unless the corners of your eyes shoot flames. Unless your hands are ablaze. Unless you have a band of thieves to guard your back. A band of losers that will soon be millionaires. We robbed souls penniless of misfortune and doubt, of sad and fear and loathing. And we destroyed all their possesionss. So come to us, wether you're rich or poor, you're going to leave, enlighted, fulfilled, enchanted. Nevermind the positive book reading, the character building support, the zen, chakra and all other forms of bullshiting people. All you need is a cigarrete a beer and a barefoot dance around the campfire. It's tradition around here to burn your soul, before you go. Before you go home.

Fantezii

Those shadows have nothing to do with me.
Dramă personală, conturată de un buchet de fantezii, aruncate vulgar, peste masă, trădând o lipsă de respect lascivă, năucitoare, ucigaşă, din care orice plăcere surprinde aprinderea către dorinţă. Nu prea mai cred în dorinţe. Totul îmi pare întâmplător.
Trying to keep it together while falling apart.
Povestea noastră, în fond. Tuturor ni se predau principii sănătoase de viaţă şi e normal să nu le respecţi.
Când te rogi pentru ceva oferi un lucru la schimb.
Ce-aş putea oferi pentru viaţă? Sau măcar pentru iluzia de a trăi din nou? Nici asta nu mi se mai pare palpabilă. Vreau o iluzie pe care s-o mai distrug din nou. Și o vreau acum.
Supraviețuire.
Cei naivi n-au șanse.
Privim la cer. Dans.
Primesc în dar amintiri. Pământul se învârte cu mine și eu o țin pe ea de mâini.
La început pare dur, dar apoi îți dai seama...
Îți dai seama că până și natura se corodează și e captivă în același joc de reguli ca și tine.
Nothing fades away, until one day...
Că a distra niște turiști suprasaturați, zeflemitori, depravați e slujba naturii. Rațiunea și forța sunt inutile. Poate că doar iubirea te mai scapă, Și buzele care miros a sărut.
Sânge, sâni, pervertire, beție, luptă.
Când stai și te gândești că toți murim câte puțin în fiecare zi te apucă plânsul. Apoi râsul. Și din nou plânsul. Și tot așa. Prea firească nu e nici primăvara asta din suflete care te surprinde și apoi te lasă baltă cu nasul în mocirlă. Leșin la gândul că nu pot fi tânăr din nou. Dar mai rău mă doare că nu sunt nici bătrân. Încă.
Drama personală nu există. Trăim cu toții un fel de dramă la comun din care nu poți scăpa individual. Mistere peste tot și puțin timp. O vendettă a vieții, suntem fluturi prinși în plasă, viespi orbite de mânie și nevoia de acțiune. Mi-aș dori să dispar pur și simplu într-o zi. Nu prea mai văd nimic nou. Nici măcar în cărți. Prins. Prins. Prins. Zorba grecul. Cum o fi să dansezi cu întunericul viselore tale?

I'd rather be dead than cool - Kurt Cobain

I was the highschool looser. The drop-out. The emo kid. Nobody would hang out with me and nobody laughed with me. But they did laugh at my flaws. Behind my back. When they thought I wasn't awake.But I was awake and I felt everything, sting me like a knife.
Like what it is to have a fucked up home and a disbanded family. The ones that laugh are the ones that had it soft on them. Theyr biggest fear was what to order when raising the menu at the restaurant, my biggest fear was raising more than myself. You never know when your last day hits you.
But I hated them from the moment I understood that I was alone. Being extroverted and being isolated is like throwing somebody in a prison cell with nothing to eat. Nobody will ever want to know anything about starvation, because the well-fed stomach keeps up a happy mind.
But guess what? You can also be happy on an empty stomach, when books are your only friend and going to the supermarket to feed yourself seems like a deadly sin. I'm an outcast, myself, not because I wanted to, but because fate has had it's way tougher on me than on the others. Am I the only one?
No way. There are countless souls just like myself, who wonder poor and alone accross this graveyard that some people call Earth, some people call home, I don't call it anything, I don't care.
But guess what? We burn the fat off our souls. 
Hard living also means hard dying, it doesn't kill us so it makes us more powerfull. I never though I was a good person. I always thought I'd go to hell and die in the worst possible way. Being a pessimist is an ugly thing. But being a blind fucking optimistic son-of-a-bitch is even worse.
You bastards are so eager to demonise everything you haven't experienced. So what if we smoke ciggarettes until the break of dawn? What if we smell roses in the gardens of strangers? What if we die of hangovers the next day? We are here because we are meant to be this way and we are not leaving nor will we bow down to some sort of trend introduced by a corporation.
And when we all get to hell, you fuckers will have the most fat on your arms and legs, and the demons will eat you first. They will fight and befriend us, but they will slay and cook you. They will chase us and they won't catch us because earth has made us swift.We will pretend that the darkness is a new home for us parasites. We never had one anyway! What's another eternity of suffering? I'm just getting warmed up!
I never believed in fairytales, although I wanted to. I desperately seeked my refuge in the uttermost incredible things: sunsets, broken shards from a spider's web, the "evil" cemetery, etc. People say I'm crazy, I say I'm completely insane. There's no intensity in what people say! There is only dullness! There is no contrast in what the world percieves. All they see is grey!
So what if I feel the most safe when I'm walking alone in the forest and I feel the wings of a dark presence surrounding me? ? like to think that whatever keeps my soul warm sometimes has some osrt of a higher purpose and won't let me go. I was crazy , demented and starved, humiliated, but I never was lost. I could always find my way home through the darkest of woods without dispairing.
I never embraced defeat, because it was worse than death. There was always a dark star guiding me. And it's not like I'm satanic or anthing like that! All I saw was darkness right in front of me, but I knew, that there was something beneath that, worth fighting for, worth the struggle and if I could just breath in and take the pain I could really break through those walls and see the light. The real light! Can you imagine? Not the sun, not the stars, not any light knows to mankind or this universe, but some sort of light of my own creation. Meeting yourself at the vanishing point of the world, without breath, thought or any other disbanding joy of the body that could intimidate you.
Sometimes I wonder what are the traces of the language we speak? What do words mean to some people and to some other people? I have met men that slaved themselves in factories who made a hell of a lot more sense than your idiotic responses to simple questions. "How are you?" I'd ask you and you'd tell me all about your stupid lives. You could summarise your entire life right there and then!
When I asked the factory worker, how he was, he'd tell me: "I'm fucked." And that made a hell of a lot more sense to me than anything. Plain and simple. Yet mysterious.
I have just met some people that completely understand me. And sometimes they lie. But it's a beautiful sort of lie, they're young, they're just kids and they say things they never did do, they just talk out loud, it's weird because they really believe in what they say and that makes me believe it too even though we both know that they're just fantasies. I can dissapear anytime in a place of my own, or a new place where I've never been, but where I've always wanted to go, unleashing myself on the streets of a new-born town like the wind in the cannopy, like the stars over New Jersey.
(to be continued...)

Vara perfectă

Este vara pe care numai eu pot să o am. Desene, răvaşe, baloane, pulbere din paradis, lumina răsfrîntă într-un ciob de lume, o capelă unde se mistuie eul tău.

Nu mai pot să scriu. Mi-aş dori să fi citit 1000 de cărţi înainte, astfel încât toate cuvintele să-mi alunece cât mai lin pe tastatură.

Nu am reuşit să fac asta. Nu pot să respir. Nu mai pot să privesc profeţia unei dureri iminente. Este aşa de rău să nu poţi scăpa de tine însuţi şi de proverbele devenite realitate dintr-oodată pe pielea ta!

Speranţa. Nu a existat niciodată. Este o eclipsă, poate fi şi o surpriză salvatoare. Dar ea nu există. E o închipuire. 

Probabil că sunt disfuncţional, dar am o groază de regrete. Am auzit că unii oameni nu regretă nimic, din toate cele ce au făcut. Aşa să fie?

Mă uit în ochii lor şi văd că privirea lor spune acelaşi lucru. Poate că e înjositor, dar eu pot să spun că am o groază de regrete. De fapt, respiraţia mea e un regret nemărturisit. Viaţa e un regret. Poate şi moartea e un regret. Şcoala a fost un regret. Mâna mea e un regret.

Regret că nu pot să fac mai bine. Regret că sunt disfuncţional,regret că sunt repetitiv, că n-am iubit cât trebuie, că m-am jertfit inutil, dar cel mai mult dintre toate regret un lucru: că mi-am suprimat ocazia de a mai fi sincer cu trecutul. Nu pot să privesc în urmă fără să închid ochii.

Mă doare. Şi-atunci privesc în faţă şi nu-mi place ce văd. Dar continui.

Şi merg pe un drum ascuns, părăsit, dintr-un oraş periculos, unde oamenii s-au fortificat în case şi privesc la televizor. Merg pe acolo şi văd multe locuinţe, unde geamurile au luciri ultraviolet, iar ecranele îşi schimbă faţa ca un tigru pornit la vânătoare. Verbele nu mai au sens. Semnul exclamării nu mai poate fi folosit. Sunt probabil pierdut.

Merg pe un drum,pierdut...

(Îmi vine în minte compromisul. Dar de ce? Nu pot să mai renunţ acum la pieire. E şi-aşa mult prea târziu să mai dau înapoi şi uite că acolo în vale strălucesc parcă stelele!)

  

Untitled, Unfinished, Unending…

Losing interesting people was always a hard thing  for me. There is  a hint in front of every lie. If you teach your ear how to listen carefully than you can almost hear  the roaring of every heart stroke through the walls  and the lungs and the pin-pointed rapture of the lingering blood vessels. I never imagined anything  like it before , but I can see it now between my aching eyes, trembling and whispering words about prophecies and hunting for a spark of soul. 
Words that become poems, boys that become men, long lasting phone-calls, the grey pavement and every step taking us nowhere , to a land neither seen or heard of.  Playing games with madness, letting her touch me once in a while, to explore the meaning of pain and to discover the two edged blade of adventure. Hidden in the sand, practicing  a  ritual of love and rage, nowhere in sight, trembling odors, mirrors, light binding the waves to shore, and shadows sending them back, ever hungry, ever restless.
If I were different, I would be a seagull and I would play with the waves sometimes and sing when the storm comes. Playful and vengeful, like a wave, unmatched, unchallenged, I would circle above the humans, joyful yet dis-charming, like a new born hope, impossible to reach.
All my life, I’ve lived among ruins. Broken side-walks, empty theaters, disenchanted patios. It always seemed like I had arrived just after a storm and while I picked up the empty chairs from the lawn  I couldn’t keep from wandering what was there before? Spilled goblets, party cups and wine sprayed across the grass in some sort of joyous gesture. I’ve never wanted to be a reporter of life, or the one that keeps track of my youth, but somehow there it is, right in front of me: no choice. It seemed like people had more fun before, the halls were full of light at night and cosmic designs were not yet in motion. Sometimes time stood still, when laughing at a table, or touching somebody’s hand by accident, it took more than a moment to realize that nothing is eternal and that was enough for me. Some form of convalescence, even if only for a second, it helped me recover and cure my superstitions and neurasthenia.  Lying in bed at night I would dream about it over and over again until I couldn’t keep myself from wondering back into  the  cradled bars, a place for hunted youths, such as myself.
The dark alleys and gangs, held evidence of a long fought battle, between rust, pain and dust. You couldn’t tell the difference from a dignified cemetery and the spray painted walls . Echoing in disgust, fear and plagued absence, the words didn’t really mean much to me:  Alcohol and pills, Playing with fire, Romance, Trains for the dead, No hope in sight and name of bands I never heard of before. But it was a familiar sight, I passed those alleys every-day and they were like a childhood home. While  at night, they were completely transfigured – no more than a few shadows kept the distance between this world and another one full of mystery - where the boys and girls had blue eyes, and blue spirals in the sky, marching like an army battalion, chanting and enchanting the stars and everything in sight until it faded away.

Noaptea

   Două felii de portocală neatinse, pe masa din lemn de nuc și un baston vechi sprijinit de ea. Farfuriile sunt încâ nespălate în bucătărie, iar pe fereastra din dormitor se vede o siluetă feminină privind în întunericul de nepătruns. Lumina felinarului îi conturează formele zvelte și dezvăluie trăsături palide, triste ce au fost vesele cândva. Ochii se aseamână unor scântei, de parcâ însăși noaptea și Hefaistos au complotat în făurirea lor, două pulbere de flăcări, o implozie de lumină.

   Nicicând nu am văzut ochi care să mă farmece precum ai ei. Iar eu mă îndrept spre ușa de la balcon cu mișcări molcome, stângace, amețit de vin. Nu știm ce ne așteaptă. Nici n-am știut vreodată. O! Voi suflete deșarte, ce priviți în noapte... Nu vă mai chinuiți atât să discerneți ceva din somnul luminii, altfel această toropeală lină s-ar putea răsfrânge în voi, și apoi... Dar apoi?  Încă nu știm ce e apoi. Siluetele se contopesc. Felinarul răspândește o lumină caldă, aurie, pe fețele lor se citește tristețea, o tristețe însuflețită de bucurie și veninul deșertăciunii. În aer se răsfiră colbul. Copacii sunt treziți la viață de vânt și parcă o orchestră întreagă se naște din vuietul naturii.

   E un spectacol pentru cer și luna și stelele-și coboară razele, dănțuind laolaltă cu frunzele din desișul nesfârșit. E un dans nebun, ce se-ntinde pe tot pământul, în depărtare codrii vuiesc iar ielele încep să cânte la vioară. Dar nimic nu mai are farmec fără privirea ei. Doi aștri coborîți din genuni, două licăriri de speranță. Iubirea merge mână-n mână cu moartea...

   Îmi țin iubita de mână. Și poate că ne și sărutăm, dar nu se mai vede nimic bine, pentru că vântul scutură perdelele , iar pe masă zac douâ felii de portocală neatinse.



(scrisă cu ceva timp în urmă...)

LIFE IS FOR NOTHING

“Life is for nothing you imbecile!” I heard her scream.

“You crook, you villan, pest of a human-being. Away from me!”

I loved this girl, crazy about Schopenhauer, maddened by life and grief and forever alone in her apartment, at room 209.

“What happened?” I asked her.

This seemed to infuriate her even more, and with a shriek, she took out the scissors from the cabinet and approached me. There were tears in her eyes, she was like a possessed animal, hunting its prey.

“Helena, put those down, dear, you don’t have to be so angry!” I cautioned her.

She put them down on the counter table and her gaze brushed the carpet. And for a split second, I could sense indecision in her eyes. Then swiftly, she lurched at me with the scissors and I didn’t have enough time to stop it, she sliced one close to my face and cut my cheek.

I caught her by the arm and there she was lying on the floor.

 

“You owe me nothing! Not your love, not your freedom, you’re a sick man, full of lies, a thief, a merchant of poor futile goods! You mean nothing to me. As I lay here each and every day, waiting for an unspeakable hero to rescue me from my wrath. The ill fates have chosen you to be part of my systematic failure. No wonder I grieve, no wonder I’m full of hatred…”

Then she was crying. I didn’t  know what to feel: contempt or repulsion. Then I remembered her gaze as we walked through the forest three summers ago. Her hauntingly beautiful smile and the way she sneered at me when I made bird noises. “Careful, they might try to mate with you, those crows.” Then I left her by the path, pretending to be unhappy, when I returned hours later, I didn’t even expect to see Helen. But there she was, standing in the same place, looking over or through the dark green bushes. She lifted her chin and started saying words I could never forget:”Here you are, my darling! But what about me? What about the fairy you left behind? Am I not just a shadow of the trees? Perhaps my place is there, within the hummingbirds. I have been dreaming a blissful dream, I don’t remember anything about it, except for the emeralds, those everlasting and conquering forces of nature, thay defended me from myself.” I didn’t know what to make of it.

 

Then there were the moments at the seaside, when we were taking long walks at night and she would gasp my arm and fiercely shriek. I didn’t even have time to ask her what was wrong, because there she went, running on the sea front and never looking back. Then she would peer at the waves through the pilasters. “I am not a dark queen, I am neither friend or foe to the absence of luminosity, I am the wind, in the winter, or in the summer, or in May and I never look back for sunshine. And I take care of my children, for my children are the waves, blissfully enchanting me with their smiles, my kin, my prophets!

Oh how I linger, just a drop of your water and I will remember it all.”

This was the moment when I had to catch her from behind or she would do something stupid. Nevertheless, it got me thinking: what was so peculiar about her? Why did she say those things? I knew she only did them around me, but sometimes I wondered if she did them when she was alone too.

 

Now she was trembling at my feet, soaking my shoes in tears, I knew she was so sorry about her scissors incident that it made it futile for me to even think about getting mad at her. Somehow, it always felt to me, like Helena was suffering more, even when she made me suffer.  This got me to the conclusions that I should hide her books at once, she never protested, because there were so many of them around, but I knew that if I took Schopenhauer away, she’d get me in my sleep.

“Do you love life?” I heard her say.

“Yes, I said.”

“You fool! Only a suicidal loves life…only a suicidal…”

And then she went to sleep in my arms, there on the living room floor, until I wrapped her in a blanket and took her away to her bedroom and put her in bed. She had the nicest look, sleeping with her mouth open just a little bit and her right hand gently pressed upon her cheek.

 

 

 

 

 

Lua-v-ar dracu!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bw-CpgKIt1Q

Not a big fan of love letters

I'm not, actually a fan of'em. Really, because I suck at writing those... But here it goes:


I don't know what to get from this. At times it seems that you're the only one that can make a highly dysfunctional character like me play his part. It doesn't have to be like this but it is.
Here you are jumping into strange cars, going to distant places and falling in love with whoever tells you a little story. But you haven't heard my story yet. Mainly because I don't want to seem weird- (although I am).
 Sometimes I wonder, whether you feel the distant gaze of my mind's eye, hoping to get a glimpse at the perfect reality you're in. I'm not an intruder. Or maybe I am, but there's something vague in my lifestyle that preoccupies me and that is the absence of you.
My story is about you. It's always been about you. Even though I would entitle it: "Us" ( cause it sounds better that way ). 
The story starts and ends in a scene. I don't know if it's perfect or dreadful, but just imagining it makes me happy. We're standing on this bench, and the sun is preparing to rise. A strange and lustful town around us and in front of our eyes there is a slope going to a forest. We're talking about nonsense, I make you laugh and suddenly everything inflates in the sheer beauty of the morning sun, the last thing I see is your smile and then there is light.  All you did was smile and it shook the earth for me.
A happy-end, a begging and a content all in that prophetic moment. Kinda' makes me wonder, kinda' makes me care...
For what's worth, I still remember the blunt details, like the day after and the foolish steps. 
Meanwhile, I'm stuck in this place from the past, and I can't shake off the nostalgia, that's slowly building up around me like a veil. I can't cleanse myself of it as long as I don't save you from this  bad world.
Not a big fan of love letters...So I'll never mail this to you. But if you could reach out to the stars, on a night in June and send them your smile, don't think I won't notice because, it would turn my night into day.

Crepuscul

Eu te indemn sa uiti de tine,
De tomul gros de amintiri
Si in dulci clipe de iubire
Sa ne patrundem in priviri.

Rain Song

         Rain Song

When every promise breaks apart

When every pain stings like a dart

I miss you

When every father leaves a son,

To face the world and everyone

I miss you

When all this poison fills my heart

There’s not a drop of rain to come

I miss you

Tears left to come , for everyone

In the mirrors of the stars, I see my heart

I don’t wanna fear this, I don’t… want to fear!

When every shallow end’s a start

When all the flames engulf my love

I miss you

So if you dare to wait wih me

And to retain yours rightfully

I miss you

Tears left to come, for everyone

In the mirrors of the stars, I see my heart

I don’t wanna fear this, I don’t … want to fear!

And the sun always runs from you, my dark queen of Egypt.

So please bring me the clouds. Let it rain! Let it rain! Let it rain!

When every storm begins to play

When every boy is lost you say:

No matter where you’ve gone

The truth is hidden in the dark

Perhaps your time is yet to shine

Together we will be alive,

When every story seems to fade

Away,away,away,away.

What I wished for today

Life is the soul of human ending. The extinctor of our race yet the single survivor.
We were pushed by One Finger, ages ago and when we fall we complete the domino.
Life has a meaning. "To be" is the sixth sense, that  we have burried under our skin of  forgotten feelings.
Life is war. A beautiful war, in which we all win, everyday, even though we know that the final battle can't be won.
It is hope, when no hope can be seen. It's a star, when there are no lights. It's my wish and that wish has come true.

Astray

There is a life. Passing the soul of the storm.
When we grow old and no one dies.
I promise you, I'll get us through
Against the tide,tied with you,
But when we get there
Pretend to care, about past time
And all the lives, we left behind
And keep in mind, that bad things pass
I'll keep you close, until the night
Becomes that day
Astray.

Treaba cu blogul

Treaba cu blogul e in definitiv constanta. Si cum cititorii mei sunt niste fantome care rar bantuie cu cate un coment sau apreciere (desi numarul vizualizarilor vad ca imi creste in fiecare zi)  m-am gandit sa reamintesc ca e destul de greu sa fii profund odata la cateva zile, ( cei care scriu  si au un simt critic imi vor da dreptate) si sa scri ceva cu adevarat frumos, cel putin eu asta incerc.

Ma mai gandeam ca as putea sa copiez niste pagini din jurnalele si caietele mele pe care le pastrez, dar nu le arat nimanui. As putea sa fac asta chiar acum,  sa iau o pagina de la inceputul verii si s-o pun aici cuvant cu cuvant, dar totusi ma gandesc ca e mai bine sa scrii despre lucruri noi. Promit totusi ca voi face si experientul asta.

Zilele astea mi-am dat seama ca e bine sa fii hotarat in lucrurile pe care le faci, atat in cele semnificative cat si in cele mai putin semnificative. Hotarat, adica sa le duci pana la capat. Asta determina pana la urma cum adormi la sfarsitul zilei. Azi am facut o groaza de lucruri interesante: m-am certat cu un cersetor pe problema politicii de ecologizare ( evident a fost de acord cu mine ca gunoiul trebuie depozitat in spatii special amenajate), m-am suit beat  pe o cladire inalta de 10 etaje si m-am ferit de pescarusii violenti care credeau ca vor sa le stric cuibul, m-am imbracat in costum de pompier si impreuna cu cinci prieteni am inceput sa fortam usa de la intrarea unei toalete publice in care o batrana...ma rog, nu vreti sa stiti ce facea.

Adevarul e ca nu am facut chestiile astea, poate doar faza cu batrana...nu! nici macar aia, ma rog cam asa scriu eu cand sunt dornic de somn si las imaginatia sa umble libera la fraiele gandirii mele extremiste. 

Va rog si pe voi sa va culcati si sa nu uitati ca uneori e bine sa mai spui si lucruri fara sens. Am pantofi gri. Noapte buna!

Pasiunea bucurie divina

''Caci pasiunea, tinere este divina. Omul este divin in masura in care simte. El este sensibilitatea lui Dumnezeu. Dumnezeu l-a creat ca sa simta prin El.''
         Thomas Mann - Muntele Vrajit.

Nu am putut sa-mi contenesc bucuria vazand aceste  cuvinte in cartea pe care o citesc si am vrut sa impartasesc imediat acest sentiment. Ce poate fi mai frumos? Sa fii sensibilitatea lui Dumnezeu. Ma umple de fericire. Fiindca imi dau seama ca suntem mici atomi ai unei Puteri Supreme. Daca suntem singuri ne stingem, dar nu pe de-a-ntregul, fiindca deodata capatam din nou viata, ca prin farmec.

Sunt sincer cand vine vorba despre acest sentiment. Mi s-a  parut ca sunt foarte norocos cand am citit pasajul. In fond, daca suntem cu totii creati pentru a simti  pentru Dumnezeu, atunci nu pot decat sa imi imaginez un pamant plin de veselie, in care oamenii isi rasfrang bucuria prin creatie: muzica, film, arta, pictura, munca, rasete, chiar si petreceri si adunari vesele, toate care sa inchine un imn catre iubire.
Vad castele si turnuri luminate noaptea, unde lumea rade si se bucura, ca dupa o saptamana de truda sau de abstinenta completa de la veselie. Simt  padurile si aerul muntelui cum vegheaza tacute, cu niste ochi de parinte asupra acestei ode inaltatoare si neverosimil de reala in inchipuirea mea. Natura ne primeste in gospodaria ei ca o mama, e totusi cu mult mai batrana decat vom apuca noi vreodata sa fim, dar renaste in fiecare an, neschimbata si ne intinereste.

Spiritul jovial nu poate decat sa sustina nevoia de a trai in armonie si fericire. Simt cum toate lacunele dispar nestingherit in fata acestui simtamant puternic, profund, sfant. Dumnezeu nu ne-a creat pe lume pentru a ne teme de viata. Batranii ne zic sa ne bucuram de viata. Si cum nu ne-am putea bucura, cand tot ce iti trebuie e doar putin curaj?
Sa radem cu adevarat! Nu vad de ce se considera oamenii unii pe altii nesabuiti, sau penibili, cand rasul e singura arma care slujeste regenerarii unui suflet asemanator ciclului anotimpurilor. Rasul e vara, cand zorile-s pustii, rasul e iarna cand fulgii stralucesc, rasul e toamna, cand iubesti cu disperare, rasul e primavara, cand briza vantului devine din nou tainica si placuta.

Vad sali de carnaval, departe la munte, ma vad pe mine si pe voi, unde spiritul bucuriei este influenta care ne leaga pe noi ca si oameni. Stiu cine sunt, stiu si de ce se bucura si de ce sunt adunati in acesasta mare adunare ludica, insa daca ma veti intreba nu va voi putea raspunde.

As vrea sa pot sa aduc aceasta imagine in fata oricui prin ce stiu sa fac mai bine.
Sunt tanar si nu inteleg multe, poate fac  o greseala cand echivalez acest mod laic de a te bucura cu unul din telurile existentiale. Oamenii spun ca vor sa se descopere pe ei insisi. Eu ma regasesc in ochii caprui ai vietii. Si sunt dator o mie si una de multumiri pentru asta!

(about) Art

An object of art is designed in such manner so that the one who finds it must know it is for himself.
An object of art must be crafted for the person receiving it and the only way you can forge this type of art is when you put your soul to it and commit to true art.
The rest is nonsense.

Poveste

Iubesc povestile.
Pacat ca dintre atatea povesti citite si traite eu nu pot sa vad unde e povestea mea. Am alergat in cautarea unei povesti atata timp. Cate castele de regrete nu am construit si tot atat de multe cute adanci in suflet din pricina unei nelinisti persistente. Uneori e greu sa fi fericit cand singurele semne ale succesului sunt zambetele pe care tot tu ti le acorzi, in speranta unui "maine" mai bun.
Dezamagirea e o floare placut mirositoare, ne face sa ne simtim unici, cand suntem parasiti, fara sa avem un motiv sau vreun plan pentru viitorul indepartat. Este firul ce rasare printre crapaturile scarilor de bloc, locuri albastre de singuratate, un spatiu mistic dintre doua lumi in care rasar vise si poposesc uneori sperante si iubiri fugare.
Uneori vedem doar orizontul, largul cerului si uitam sa ne uitam la drumul care ne desparte de el. Nu pot face un salt mortal ca si asta, oricat as amana, probabil ca din filme ne-am invatat astfel. Nu poti ajunge peste noapte milardar. Never.
Alteori ma simt ca si cum as vasli intr-o mare nemiscata, strapunsa de stalpii norocului si ai ocaziilor. Sunt ca un licurici pe o pluta, pierdut intr-un imperiu al lumanarilor inalte, care lumineaza mereu deasupra mea si tot imi caut lumanarea neaprinsa printre sutele aprinse, sperand ca ma voi ridica si eu in zbor. Atunci o sa ma asez pe fitilul unei astfel de lumanari si o sa incerc sa pacalesc micile flacari, atat de straine si sa raspandesc la fel ca si ele, un fir de suflet. Nu vor mai crede ca sunt doar un licurici, voi deveni o flacara vie la fel ca si ele.
O sa o dau peste ea, intr-o buna zi.

Suferinta si Credinta

De fiecare data cand a aparut o suferinta noua in viata mea, am rabdat pana la un anumit punct, cand fie am ajuns la un deznodamant, fie nu am mai rezistat. Cred ca fiecare suferinta ascunde un lucru bun, care poate fi descoperit, in spatele sufernitei vietii noastre se afla o rasplata pe masura.
Cine rabda si reuseste se bucura de dar. Cine nu...nu pot sa stiu. Cert este ca de foarte putine ori am dus o durere pana la capat, de foarte putine ori mi-am pastrat credinta intacta, fara sa rup macar un strop din ea si sa o arunc aiurea in vant ca sa opresc o furtuna. La urma urmelor si blogul asta tot cam despre asa ceva este...despre suferinta.

Incertitudinea ca un anume chin si-a avut rostul face ca rasplata sa fie mai dulce, gandesc eu. Dupa ce poti sa rasuflii usurat ca ai scapat de un lucru nasol, apare ( ca la fizica ), fenomenul de inductie, cand nu mai vrei sa alegi, ci te simti ales, purtat de niste maini sigure si mangaiat de curenti de aer placuti, care spala sudoarea de pe frunte. Sufletul linistit este unul din cele mai frumoase si mai rare lucruri. Sufletul patat seamana cu sudoarea de pe un diamant sangeriu.

Cu toate astea nu pot decat sa fiu recunoscator pentru suferintele mele, am invatat cel mai mult din ele si m-am bucurat cel mai mult tot din ele. Dupa ce trece un an si privesti in urma asupra faptelor ramase, printr-un anume har strain venit de Sus, cred eu suferintele capata o placere aparte, seamana un pic cu vinul pus in pivnita. E placut sa gusti din cand in cand din el, chiar daca la inceput are o intepatura caracteristica.

Cand am avut pneumonie acum cativa ani, zaceam intr-o camera de hotel din Neptun si priveam pe fereastra. Stateam toata ziua plin de sudoare in cearsafurile cumplit de nefamiliare, pentru ca uneori erau reci alteori erau insuportabil de calde, pe masura ce frisoanele se jucau noaptea cu mine. Tratamentul destul de puternic pe care l-am luat nu ma ajuta deloc, inghiteam pastilele cu oarecare chin, fiindca in sinea mea stiam ca nu vor avea efect, asa e cu tratamentele '' de casa''. Intr-una din nopti avut cosmaruri. Pana cand intr-o zi m-am trezit de dimineata si m-am dus sa vad marea pentru prima oara, m-am plimbat putin pe mal, apa imi gadila vinisoarele de la talpi, am baut si un ceai, singur pe o terasa. Nu poti sa ramai ingandurat cand vezi marea, e prea frumoasa si rapitoare ca sa-ti permiti, o jignesti. Totusi eu m-am gandit ca s-ar putea sa fie ultima mea zi. Am cerut mila. Dupa-amiaza febra nu mai scadea. Luasem deja peste limita normala de nurofen-uri si fiole de algocalmin. Spre inserat m-au dus spre spitalul din Constanta la Urgente. Mi-am revenit, destul de repede, chiar pe drum. Cred ca marea mi-a raspuns. Sau poate cineva mai mare decat marea. Lumea fuge cand aude de Dumnezeu, se gandesc la fanatici si bigotisti sau protestanti. Totusi, eu datorez multumiri pentru ziua aceea, pe care le spun intr-o sincera si admirabila tacere. Dumnezeu e mereu cu un pas inaintea omului, Iti multumesc!

Albastra Poveste

Tainica stire
Frica,zvacnire
Val de plutire
Albastra iubire

Nori si-o cununa
Visele-aduna
Nopti fara luna
Albastra furtuna

Sange-n scrisoare
Ploi trecatoare
Teama de soare
Albastra uitare

Falsa dublura
Soapta pe gura
Tainica ura
Albastra tortura

Umbre-n portita
Tremur de vita
Strasnica spita
Albastra domnita

Ascuns de credinta
Firav in nestinta
Lipsit de vointa
Albastra dornita

Singur pe strada
Munti de zapada
Nu vrea s-o vada
Albastra fatada

Subita nesitre
Timp de gandire
Sticle,amintire
Albastra implinire

Durere acuta
O floare tacuta
Coaja de nuca
Albastra naluca

Miros de tristete
Pierduta noblete
Sperante razlete
Albastra finete

Minciuna din bere
Faianta, cadere
Frivola placere
Albastra-ncheiere

Sfarsitul chiar este
Ascuns poate peste
O moarte sau veste
Albastra poveste

No matter how the weather is her plain figure is always the same. Her constant gaze touches everyone’s thoughts. Throughout the past days I have seen her in the coffee shop. Her hair…brown, eyes brown and she’s always dressed in colours that fit her completely.
Orange, green sometimes gray or black. I never did speak to her. Nobody ever did. But I know she’s a writer, because she writes in a notebook, and the simplicity and the air of balance coming from her tell me she’s a good writer.
She stays in front of the oak tree, with the yellow leaves above her head, alone, drinking her coffee, rejecting strangers with a look, that makes anyone run away.
It’s not love at first sight. Sure the first time I saw her I thought she looked fine, but soon I forgot about her. But then I noticed her again at the same wooden table with a cup of coffee.
No, there is no reason why she sits there. But the more I look at her I find an endless stream of inspiration. Just seeing her sit there with the coffee, behind her the autumn trees, sun shining through some clouds, cars passing by, nothing spectacular. Just plain simple.
I used to be all about complex feelings and things hard to understand. But it’s the simple things that are really hard to understand. Now I’ve fallen in love with her simplicity, her flare, her presence there is nothing on my mind so catching like her. It might be some kind of degeneration of love, some new age love. Some might call it so. But I feel so calm and quiet even when I’m near her table or even when I’m not.
I guess I’ll never ask her something or talk to her. Not because of fear of rejection, because I know she’s gonna be there the next day and so on. I see her there in the coffee shop she’s always mysterious, but not in a dark way, in the light way if that makes sense.
She does not make me fly, but she makes me feel so sure on my senses better than anything else, she dosen’t make me dream or not sleep at night, I can feel her presence on my fingertips or is it just the sun’s light..? I’m trying to catch a gray butterfly here… and this butterfly is called peace, not happiness but peace. Because happiness fades away. You can’t be happy forever right?
She’s plain simple like an apple. It’s the newest feeling I get. Like that feeling you get when the rain stops. I have no idea what her name is, but I don’t even want to find out, I would be disappointed. No name could be fine enough for her.
She’s plain simple like I said. I think I’ve fallen in love with the girl in the coffee place!