Ceva nou

Reincep scrierile. De data asta pe Wordpress, https://9laputerea3.wordpress.com/ . 

Am incredere ca scrierile vor fi mult mai mature, vaste si placute cititului. Voi analiza de asemenea bucati de literatura, psihologie si filosofie, precum si evenimente din viata personala, calatorii, experiente, ganduri. 

Acest blog o sa fie curand privat asadar, in cazul putin probabil de a avea inca cititori, ne regasim pe noua platforma. 

All this nothing

 "I’m the space between what I’d like to be and what others made of me. Just let me be at ease and all by myself in my room.” - Fernando Pessoa

Write about all this nothing.

I walk around these streets of Lancaster, and I write it all, inside my head. I believe writing for me, is way too personal. I envy these writers who reflect upon life and unveil through words harsh truths and  those who create whole new galaxies, drive me crazy. 
For me, it was always a way of saving myself from the despair generated by a cruel silence in which I was meant to live. They all encourage you to say how it is, and to say how it feels. But they all lie. 
Feelings are scary, especially mine, I believe. 
And I have always had this sense of responsibility. I don't like to hurt people, I do not like mercy either so I had to keep it all inside my head, so that it does not disturb the existence of others.
They all knew I was sensitive. But they did not know I am crazy too. 
I found out I was crazy by writing about my feelings, by closing the page after, and never read it again.
I felt disgust and anger in regards to my writings. Because I always craved some sort of smartness and uniqueness I didn't believe I had. I never had enough words either. 
It went down slowly. 
I stopped writing in my native language, because it was, again, too personal. 
I stopped writing in English, because these words of mine are the same combination of a puzzle which in the end reveals the same image. I am telling the story differently, but when will I change the story?
Am I not bored of the same narrative, of the same scenarios I disclosed inside my head for so many years, when all I am is a confused child.
In Lancaster, it had to stop.
I came here because I believed in my capacity of writing a new story, and of living new adventures. I forgot one thing, the protagonist was the same. 
And then the joints.
And those many many nights of 'happiness'. But is it happiness, if you don't remember most of it? Not because of alcohol, not even because the loudness of the music was sometimes leaving my brain in some weird anesthesia. But because, what was there to remember? 
Wasn't I, just like them all? No. I was worse. 
Because these party-people, they don't fight it anymore, maybe they never did. They drink a little bit too much and dance a little bit too less, and then go home with a new individual, to have the same sex. 
Me, on the other hand, didn't really fit in. 
I do enjoy, but I have never been a fan of endless nights which mirrored the same girl. For me, a great happiness and a great sadness ended with a different me. Idyllic, a better me. Therefore, there is nothing really to remember from all these Friday nights. 
It's a repetitive process of shallow actions. Shower, make up, clean my room real quick, maybe I bring someone over. I never do really, I never want to. In the living room they play all these rappers, which I now like as well, but are they good for real?
In the good days, I smoke a joint in my way to the club. In the bad ones, I drink JD plain with lemon, even if I hate alcohol. High heels on, too much chest revealed, I don't really care. They call me pretty and I like that. 
I am only pretty these days. I don't remember when someone called me smart, if they do is it because I am, or because they got to know me well enough to understand my actual interests? Everyone has an interest, mostly physical. I don't mind.
This is my problem, and one of the main reasons I can't disrespect the literary empire with my pathetic writings anymore: nothing really bothers me.
I am not bothered by the lack of love, neither the lack of attention. The compliments meant to awake some sort of reaction are, in my eyes, part of a game in which we all willingly engaged. 
I have expensive make up, and uncovered legs. They have thirst and an entire vocabulary meant to spread them. I just have ears and different thoughts. So I smile and laugh back, I am sassy most of the time, I want them to know I am not touched even if I am not bothered either. 
There is nothing much to remember from these Friday nights. 
These girls look at me with madness, I see the disapproval in their eyes, I probably slept with someone they believe they owe. I see the jealousy, I hear the gossips. I just want to laugh at all times. 
How come they came this far in life and still don't know that a woman who is valued by a man, has no need to compete with another. I could fuck or not the man they think they need, it won't make any difference. For them, we are all the same. Once you understand where you stand in a man's eyes, and why you stand there, there is no war left to be fought. Not against him or those 'other women', but especially not against yourself. 
People are too proud to see their place in time and space, they can not even see their place in other's lives. 
I feel great sadness sometimes, for all these envy women and for all these empty men. Just in the rare moments when I am bothered by my surroundings. 
I stand with them all, because I understand the need of blaming another woman for the attention that a male cannot give you. It's easier to think that I am the villain, than to admit that you search for validation in the wrong arms. So I let them be, and walk straight in the club. 
I understand these men too. It's harder for them to recover. 
Something interesting happened to me just the other day.
I was in bed with E., we were smoking a joint between my pink sheets. He told me "I have sex because I see it as a necessity for the body, I don't feel anything." 
I first had the instinct of feeling offended. Why would you say that while in bed with me? But instead, I felt for him. It was not about me really, just as it is not about any other woman he entertains, it is about his incapacity of developing new connections, of changing the pattern. He is hurting still. In the days when men do not disgust me, I understand them all. They have to hide because not being strong drives them all crazy. When I am sad and weak, I cover myself with a big blanket and, if I can, I cry. When men are sad, they develop weird mechanisms of defense, they fight it until they forget about it. Their pride is too big and the aim is too high. If you are a pretty girl, or maybe just a girl, you don't have to do much. Sex, dates, attention are not hard to obtain. But all these have to be initiated by someone, who in most cases must be a man. 
It gets tiring, I believe. 
So I am not really bothered by anything, because I can always find something to understand. 
Too many times, however, it gets me numb, it gets me quiet. 
I prefer to remember these Saturday mornings, than these Friday nights. I feel artistic on Saturdays. I always wake up with a crazy headache, I am weirdly dressed, my make up is still there, fighting strange battles with my dark circles. On the floor, my passport - always gives me relief, how didn't I lose it ? I am waking up alone most times, which I, of course, don't mind. 
I hear my flatmates downstairs, gossiping as usual. Many girls are limited. That's why I always felt better among men. They have more things to say. Women choose to revolve around men and the frustration they feel when they do not execute as expected, it just makes me sick. 
I prefer to chill in my room. The sky has pretty colors, my room is white. I might as well be in hospital- the death of my neurons affected my heart too. 
I always say I will write. 
But about what? The mediocrity in which I am captive, my mediocrity and their mediocrity? 
My life is a fusion of love and hate, which melts together so well sometimes, that it becomes plain. I became so good at controlling it all, it makes me proud sometimes. 
I don't allow myself to have strong emotions about anything really. I love and hate everything and everyone I know in exact amounts. Enough love to give me purpose, enough hate to always search for more and to feel entitle to leave. 
I should like my own company a little bit more. 
I have interesting thoughts, I would get very bored by all of this, if I would not have to carry around this crazy mind. If I wouldn't see all these details. 
I am not smart really, but fuck my ability of understanding nonsense. That's why I was never good at Math. It makes too much sense. 
I, on the other hand, like to find answers in confusing combinations of events and people. I see damage and I swallow it, thinking that one day I might write an interesting book about all this nothing. 

Lotus

Church bells

"I have loved many women and men, but I loved none better than you [...]" - Walt Whitman 

Church bells ring. 
I was wondering why. It's almost Easter, isn't it? 
They have a different sound in this country, happier and deeper. 
It makes me think to a great sadness which is, however, covered in hope. 
Compared with the sound of other bells which I heard before, this specific sound makes me feel different. 
I like the beautiful fusion between good and bad. Between ending and an eternal beginning. It reminds me of my life and, most of all, it reminds me of us. 

I started reading "The Alchemist". I was thinking about this book since summer, when your lips pronounced the name of it for the first time. When you, the guy who only used to hear stories about books from me, recommended me a book. 
I wanted to laugh.
Now, I just smile.
I haven't feel so nervous about holding a book in my hands since I was little. 
I lost that crazy feeling of wanting but not wanting to read something. When you are intrigued by a story but you are not sure if you actually want to finish it. Fear of disappointment but also the fear of reading something so amazing, knowing that it will be eventually over. 
This time, I am afraid for a different reason. 
I hold this book in my hands and I am scared because every word makes me think about you. Knowing that you read those words, I keep wondering what were you thinking while you were reading them, what meaning did you find? 
I imagine you wearing your black shirt, behind the bar, moving the pages while you're moving your eyes, and thinking, imagining.
I like the story, but I am not sure if I want to finish it or not. I like thinking about you, but I am aware that it hurts my feelings, just as I am aware of the fact that I will finish the book, unable to exchange any idea with you, any thought. 
I wish you could be in this bed with me, too big for a single soul, on your back, helping me to discover where that beautiful mind wanders. I will probably smoke a cigarette by the window, watching you. I can hear you making mean jokes about how I shouldn't smoke but I don't think I could hear them properly, because I would be too focused on your appearance. 
Every time I had the chance to see you, I was so careful to remember every detail. It's like I knew, the entire time, that it will come a day when I won't be able to see you anymore. 
Now, when I am indeed live this eternal fear, I am concerned that it might come a day when it will be so hard to remember your smile. Every day it gets harder to remember your laugh. 
By reading this book I am trying to keep myself as close to you as possible. 
And I know it sounds crazy.

But crazy is the life itself.
I have a new job. It makes me so tired, but I won't complain because I wanted it so badly. And it also reminds me of you. The only difference between then and now is that when I look behind the bar, there is no you. 
When I make a cappuccino, all I can think about is how you made cappuccinos, and how you would criticize me for the way I am making it. 
I wake up in the morning, before the sun gets the chance to warm this world a little bit. I have to walk through some kind of village, seems like a small forest, with a path in the middle of it. Do you remember how we were walking through the park, in order to get to work ? We didn't really take the bus, we were enjoying too much talking and walking in the nature. Seeing the lake, smelling the morning air.
Here, there is no bus. 
But even if it would have been one, I would chose the walk because I like to see how the sky gets blue, to smell the daffodils, to observe the British old fashioned houses. Some of them are so beautiful. I am thinking about living there with you, it would be such a dream. Waking up and smelling the trees together, while you're making coffee. Then in the night time, talking about life while facing the warming fire of a chimney, making love somewhere between. 
This would be a fulfilling life. 
But the reality is so much different. 
I walk on the hill, which takes my breath away. I am not really happy to work here, it makes me feel like a stranger. I am tired and my legs hurt. I can see so many cars and I am wondering where all this people go. 
I serve a lot of tea. With milk, please. 
When I finish, I walk down the hill, while looking at the dawn. The view's so beautiful. This nature makes me to believe in tomorrow.
I come back "home", it's all empty. I spend most of my days alone. I am not that bothered, after all, they took everything from me. Except your memory.
Two days ago, I had sex with someone. It wasn't even sex, it was just a forced physical interaction that I refused from the beginning. 
The next they I woke up crying. The shower didn't take away all my disgust. I felt assaulted, covered in dirt. I didn't want to be this way, to end up like this.
Or when I was so drunk in the club that I fell. And I had to talk calm, trying to hide the unbearable pain which was exploding in my body. I still have the bruises. In the same night I took a shower with all my clothes on, I felt so sick.
I am glad, however, that all these things happen because now, I am going to keep myself alone, in order to avoid this horrifying experiences. 
This is not me. I knew by then, just as I know now.
But there are so many things, so many thoughts, and there is no you.
Every time I feel so much disgust for the world, I remember that the world has you, so it can't be that bad.
I live with this deeply regret that I can't be with you and that I can't find a single soul who would treat me like I am more than an object, but I am trying to keep myself focused on things which really matter. 
Such us our memory, such as myself.
I am working on that, and I will make us proud.

Lotus

beauty of the world

"With such a hell in your heart and your head, how can you live? How can you love?" - F. Dostoyevsky 

A couple of weeks ago, I had this dream about you. 
I was sleeping with you on my chest. 
And then I woke up, and it was me, just me. But in the back of my mind, I was looking, once again, in those brown eyes which I got the chance to see for the first time 3 years ago, in the summer of my life. 
And I missed you terribly. 
I wanted to write, but I was tired of all these weird emotions. My body felt heavy, like you were still there. But I was, however, in peace. Because you'll always be my deepest silence, the dream of my life, the beauty of the world. 

And last night, I had another dream. I woke up without remembering it. I had this weird chaos in my mind, like I've been in some place, unable to remember why I was there and what I was doing. 
I took a shower and right there, covered in boiled water and hopelessness, I remembered my dream. It was you, once again. We were back together, after a long distance, maybe longer than this one. We were holding hands, and we were just the same. 
The same crazy kids who were lying on the same bench in the park, unable to imagine all that was about to come, creating dreams and lives in our minds. What if someone would have told us then about this madness? Now, when I'm thinking about my future, I am scared. Is it going to be crazier than this? 

When the memory of this dream hit me, I asked myself  "why". You're always in my mind, that's a fact, but the dreams about us are long gone. It's been years, after all. When I am awake, I don't romaticize us anymore, I don't build a future for us. Because it hurts and because it's not possible. But I think about you when I'm in my bed in the morning, when I see something that reminds me of that beautiful childhood of us or simply when I make myself some breakfast. But mostly, I remember about you when I can't endure my life. When people hurt me, lie to me, cheat on me, humiliate me. And I start crying, and then I think about you with anger and kindness, all at once. Because you were the only one who accepted me for who I was, who saw me and took me without asking for something back. Because for you I wasn't an object of desire. You didn't ask me for sex, you asked me about my dreams, about my deepest emotions. You were telling me all that's bad about myself, but not to drag me down, as they all do, but to help me grow. When I was bad, you were mad, because you thought I have the potential to be just great. 
I am not sure if you loved me, but I know that you wanted to know me and maybe, sometimes, to hold me. 
And I am so fond of you, when I think about this all. And I am so deeply disgusted by this present where all of that is gone, where I can't find anyone like this again and most of all, where I can't have you back. Where I have to deal with all of this pain and anger all by myself. 

Maybe that's why I dream about you and I wake up full of sadness. 

But let me tell you about me, because I am different now, on so many levels. 
I was in love with someone and after that, I have been depressed and I dealt with all of that by myself. It took me a long time and many nights of tears to take myself back there in the world, to breath in, and then to breath out. Telling myself "don't give up, don't give in, there is an answer to everything."
The pain from the inside went right out, starting to damage my friendships. It took just a couple of days to find myself lying on the floor, utterly alone. Somehow, I sorted it out. But I was already exhausted, insecure and damaged. 
Meanwhile, I had to take care of my degree. But I didn't. The stress, the panic and the anxiety made it all even worse. I don't know what I am doing anymore, how to do it, why to do it. 
I am not motivated anymore, some days I just feel that I am not capable at all. 
And then, I got out of money.
And I cried. Because I struggled to work, but I couldn't find any place for it. So then I had to spend all my days inside my room, my ugly, green pale room. 
And then I found myself in the arms of a guy that I didn't know anything about. Just because I wanted to be hold just for once, just because I wanted to be their definition of normal. I was sick of tears, tired of loneliness. I needed a physical thing now, just because I wanted to feel like a human, because I wanted to be kissed, because  I wanted someone to lie on my chest, to replace the pressure of the world. Because I am young, and I live a crazy life, and I had to adapt. 
It was just a couple of days until I heard the truth. The "truth" they said about me. That I am stupid, that all I am is a body. 
And it hurt me deeply. And I had to convince myself that they weren't right. I had to keep looking at them like I wasn't breaking on the inside. Maybe they are right, but even if they are, I still had to keep going, I still have to wake up and then go back to sleep.
And I cried and cried, and smoked and listen to music and walked around, day and night, just to keep myself busy.
And this is what I am doing now.
And then I am at my window once again, smoking, seeing the moon covered in clouds. And I think of you. Would you still care for me, if you would see me now? Would I still be here, if you weren't there? 
I am not sure who I am anymore, or what to do. 
Somehow, after all these years, you're still the only thing that I am sure about, my only refuge, the most beautiful part of my life, my eternal gratitude and my best friend.
But do I ever cross your mind.....

Ascunsa

saying goodbye

"We live in a rainbow of chaos." - Paul Cezanne.

Iubesc marea. 
Sa ma arunc in neinchipuita ei adancime mi s-a parut cel mai firesc lucru. Era ca o chemare de undeva din afara mea, ceva incontrolabil, depasind inimaginabil limitele mele umane.
Ratiunea, singurul lucru ce m-ar fi putut incetini din a ma arunca in cel mai sublim necunoscut, mi 
s-a parut pe atunci o notiune abstracta. 
Pentru ca aveam curaj. 
Fiindca definitia tineretii nu era alta decat nebunia momentului, haosul inimii parea sa-mi dicteze pasii, sa-mi ghideze, de fapt, toata existenta. 
N-am vazut pe atunci ce furtuna nebuna strabatea marea si n-am putut, nici macar sa ghicesc, ceata sufocanta de la celalalt mal. 
Eram imbatata de un albastru nefiresc de frumos, de niste emotii puerile care infloreau in mine zi de zi, asemenea unui lotus.
Lotus...
M-am aruncat in mare si aproape ca m-am inecat. Poate ca nu este niciun "aproape", poate ca, intr-adevar, am murit si traiesc un vis, dar nu este visul meu.
Fiindca obisnuiam sa visez frumos, in aceasta imagine tulbure a vietii mele, abia pot sa respir. Am plamanii scufundati in tutun si in apa sarata careia i-am atribuit numele tau. 
Nu mai pot sa gandesc lucid, astept finalul fiecarei zile pentru ca, desi vesnic izbita de amintirea ta,  tigara fumata la geam, vocea lui Frank Sinatra pe fundal si cerul senin al noptii ma fac sa-mi amintesc ca inca exist. Singurele clipe in care, ravasita dupa o alta zi, pare ca ma regasesc undeva, pe cel mai pustiit tarm al lumii. 
Sunt o epava. Delirez la infinit si mi-e dor de mare. 
De tine, de entuziasmul si bucuria pe care obisnuiam sa le simt cand ma scufundam tot mai mult, inconstienta, pierduta. 
Acum m-am trezit si ma doare. 
Acesta fiind motivul noptilor mele tarzii si sufletului meu amortit. 
Sunt singura si ma debusoleaza sentimentul ca, inconjurata de oameni pare ca ma simt si mai incremenita. 
Care ar fi, in fond, solutia la o problema numita "tu" ?
Ieri am vazut o poza cu tine. Sau poate a fost acum doua zile, sau intr-o alta viata.. nu mai stiu. Timpul isi pierde insemnatatea, cand nu te bucuri de el in niciun fel. O zi e doar o zi, o ora e doar o ora, amintirea ta este, se pare, singurul meu ceas.
Un ceas care merge inapoi, infigandu-si sagetile in sufletul meu obosit. 
Pareai fericit. Am inceput sa plang insa, de aceasta data, nu stiu daca am plans din cauza propriei mele nefericiri sau fiindca zambetul tau este oxigenul dupa care tanjesc, ca orice om inecat. 
Vazandu-ti sclipirea de bucurie capturata in fotografie, aproape ca am uitat cine esti si ce am ajuns sa fiu eu, din cauza ta.
Pentru cateva minute erai din nou copilul care dormea cu capul pe pieptul meu, in prima zi de toamna. Erai cei mai frumosi ochi pe care i-am vazut vreodata, stand deasupra mea, zambit copilaresc in intimitatea serilor noastre. 
Auzeam din nou vesnica noastra melodie de fundal si simteam in piept racoarea acelor dimineti de vara, cand rataceam de nebuni pe strazile goale. Si-mi amintesc cat de plina ma simteam eu. Si ce frumoasa era marea, si ce frumos erai tu. Atunci si intotdeauna. 
Sunt momente cand as vrea sa retraiesc acele clipe in care eram infatisarea delirului sau cel putin sa le uit, sa sterg orice urma de bucurie, pentru ca tristetea insuportabila de acum sa nu mai aiba nicio continuitate. 
Dar fiindca nu se poate savarsi niciuna din aceste dorinte absurde, nu pot decat sa-mi iau ramas bun. 
Au trecut prea multe luni traite intr-o singuratate desavarsita. 
M-am trezit tarziu atat de multe dimineti, incercand sa raman tot mai mult in inconstienta somnului, fiidnca m-am saturat sa-mi amintesc...
In alte nopti, cand adorm gandindu-ma la viitorul pe care nu vom ajunge sa-l traim impreuna, te visez. Te vad fericit cu altcineva. 
Insa stiu ca acestea nu sunt doar scenarii imaginare generate de mintea mea pierduta in disperare, ci o realitate la care incerc sa ma acomodez. 
Nu cred ca am sa inteleg vreodata care ti-au fost motivele.
Cum ai putut sa strangi in brate o fata care te iubeste mai mult decat s-ar putea vreodata iubi pe ea insasi si sa minti. Si sa nu te doara si pe tine. 
Nu am sa stiu niciodata de ce si cum am ajuns aici, intr-o viata pe care mi-e greu s-o numesc a mea. 
Am vrut sa fii fericit, cumva, inca vreau. In scurtele momente cand uit inghetul prin care incerc sa ma misc. 
Nu m-am considerat niciodata un om egoist, as fi vrut sa te stiu fericit, sa stii ca te iubesc si ca asta nu se va schimba. Dar cat imi doresc, acum, sa uit de toate acestea.
Nu-mi amintesc sa fii trait vreodata un chin mai mare, o umilinta mai adanca. 
De aceea, in prima zi a unei alte luni de iarna, imi iau la revedere.
Pe atunci imi doream sa nu trebuiasca niciodata sa spun cuvinte atat de grele, azi imi doresc sa nu te fi cunoscut deloc. Poate ca asa as fi putut sa dorm si sa traiesc.
Nu mai am energie sa fiu tulburata de manie, nici timp sa ma mai adancesc in vise imposibil de atins, nici in gandurile astea sufocante...
Deci ramai cu bine, intr-una dintre cele mai dureroase secvente ale vietii mele.

Ascunsa

Tu cine esti

                                                        "It was all a dream."

M-am gandit astazi la posibilitate de a te uita. 

La toti anii care vor trece fara sa te mai aud, sau macar sa te mai vad, din intamplare, pe vreo strada de la marginea orasului. 

Ma sperie toata aceasta idee, ca m-as putea trezi intr-o oarecare dimineata dorindu-mi sa-ti recreez chipul in interiorul mintii mele si sa-mi dau seama ca nu mai stiu cum. 

Poate ca mi-ar face mult bine..sa te uit. Dar n-as vrea. 

Tu, cel mai incredibil lucru care mi s-a intamplat vreodata, sa dispari, cu tot cu nebunia devastatoare pe care ai lasat-o in urma ta. 

Prima mea iubire, cel mai bun prieten al inimii mele, linistea, durerea mea cea mai adanca. 

Inca imi amintesc rasul tau, umerii tai largi, usor aplecati, vechea ta tunsoare. 

Zilele toride de vara, cand zburdai pe strada ca un copil nedespartit de nebunia lui, frigul diminetii, briza marii, noi doi.

Inca o data, este frig afara. Trebuie sa tin geamul deschis, sa se piarda in inghetul iernii fumul tigarilor care-mi chinuie plamanii dar imi amortesc tumultul de ganduri despre tine, despre noi. 

Privesc in gol si ma intreb, fara speranta, oare ce mai faci.

M-am intrebat azi, ca pentru prima oara, daca mi-ar placea de tine, cel care esti acum. Trebuie sa te fi schimbat, caci viata nu trece pe langa noi fara a ne modifica compozitia inimii, gandurile, si tot 

ce-am crezut vreodata ca suntem. 

Eu sunt o alta acum, probabil mai rau decat am fost vreodata, tu cine esti?

Imposibil de raspuns la aceasta intrebare dar stiu bine ca, oricine ai fi astazi, te-as iubi probabil cu aceeasi intensitate. Poate ca te-as iubi, de fapt, mai mult.

Sunt zile cand imi doresc sa nu te fi cunoscut, cel putin nu atunci. De ce nu ne-am intalnit, oare, 

intr-un viitor indepartat, cand timpul, viata si noi insine ne-ar fi permis sa fim impreuna? 

Poate ca acum, in mijlocul durerii crunte pe care trebuie s-o indur din zi in zi, in valtoarea de confuzie in care ma scufund, ai fi putut sa-mi fi alinare, cel mai frumos refugiu. Dar poate ca, daca erai aici, nu mai era necesar sa scriu despre niciun fel de durere, caci ce-ar fi putut sa ma doara cand as fi gasit, in trasaturile tale delicate, toata fericirea lumii...

Dar te-am cunoscut intr-o copilarie indepartata, fara sa stiu ca aveai sa-mi rastorni tot viitorul, fara sa-mi imaginez ca n-am sa mai respir fara sa ma gandesc la tine. 

Esti prezent in fiecare dimineata cand incerc sa dorm mai mult, doar ca sa uit tot adevarul asta care ma ingrozeste...Cele mai rele sunt, in schimb, diminetile cand trebuie sa ma trezesc, sa execut masinal toate indatoririle omenesti, fara nicio urma de fericire, fara pic de curaj..

Toate aceste dimineti menite sa fie date uitarii, doar ca sa ajung la deznodamantul fiecarei zile ca sa rememorez, intr-o incercare disperata de a ma despinde de realitatea mea insingurata, toate amintile cu tine...Acelea au fost, probabil, cele mai frumoase zile ale vietii mele, ma izbesc intruna de zidul tot mai inalt care ma desparte, acum, de ele. 

Imi dau seama ca sunt patetica. As fi vrut sa fii mandru de mine, dar m-am pierdut. 

Oameni au venit si au plecat, au rupt din mine si m-au lasat singura, intr-o balta de sange. Grijile si responsabilitatile imi bat la usa din ce in ce mai insistent, ma pierd din ce in ce mai mult.

Mai stii cand visam sa inchiriem un apartament mic in Bucuresti? Eu m-as fi dus la scoala, tu te-ai fi dus la munca. Ne-am fi regasit undeva, la apus, intr-o camera ingusta. Mi-as fi baut ceaiul, tu ai fi mancat o madlena. M-as fi grabit sa-mi fac temele, doar ca sa am mai mult timp liber sa privesc cu tine tavanul de un alb murdar al camerei noastre mici, in timp ce am fi povestit despre tot si nimic. 

M-as fi plans despre cat de greu este sa memorez atata informatie, m-ai fi incurajat spunandu-mi ca, orice s-ar intampla, stii ca am sa ma descurc. Ti-as fi vorbit despre o carte pe care am citit-o candva, de mult. Tu ti-ai aminti despre o fata sau doua cu care la un momentdat, in copilaria ta haotica, ai intretinut relatii intime. Subiectul m-ar face sa-ti vorbesc despre dificultatile pe care le intamplin eu, cand e vorba despre aceste conexiuni fizice atat de firesti pentru oricine altcineva. Ai rade de mine iar eu as rade inapoi, fiindca, desi diferiti, m-ai intelege perfect. Poate ca n-as mai fi fumat tigari, caci tie nu ti-ar fi placut, iar eu n-as avea, in fond, nevoie. Mama ar plange mai putin, caci, in ciuda inevitabilelor neplaceri ale vietii care m-ar fi inconjurat din cand in cand, m-ar fi stiut in siguranta si, la finalul oricarei zile, linistita alaturi de tine. 

Am ramane usor fara bani, dar as fi renuntat oricand la lucruri materiale mai putin necesare pentru a-ti cumpara tie, din cand in cand, ceva de la McDonald's. Tu ai fura vin alb de la munca, pe care l-am fi baut seara, pe stomacul gol. Am rade de absurditatea vietii noastre, am rade mai mult de incapacitatea mea de a ma comporta ca o fiinta normala. 

Te-as fi invatat engleza, istorie si romana..din putinul pe care-l stiu si eu. Dar pe tine te-ar fascina iar aceasta bucurie a ta inofensiva, mi-ar incalzi inima, ar aprinde in mine pasiuni descrise, de-a lungul atator veacuri, de fel si fel de poeti. 

Ti-as fi povestit cum, intr-o zi, cand dorul de tine era prea greu de indurat, m-am apucat de citit poezie. Cum imi umpleam inima de iubirea altora pentru a putea descrie mai tarziu, iubirea mea pentru tine. Claudiu n-ar fi avut puterea de a-mi frange inima, l-am fi sunat, din cand in cand, sa-i povestim despre viata noastra nebuna in capitala iar daca m-as fi indepartat de telefon, a-ti fi facut glume indecente pe seama mea. Le-ati fi facut, de fapt, si fara sa ma indepartez... 

As fi ras. 

L-as fi chemat in vizita si m-as fi straduit sa fac o cina cel mult comestibila pentru tot trei..am fi ras din nou. 

Si am fi luat-o, in fiecare zi, de la capat. 

Dar vezi..nimic n-a fost sa fie asa.

Tu ai plecat, apoi te-ai intors. Eu am plecat..si am ramas acolo. Claudiu a avut sansa sa-mi distruga orice ramasita de curaj si bucurie si a si facut-o. Ma intreb daca ai auzit...Ma intreb daca ti-a parut putin rau, imaginandu-ti declinul meu emotional, inceput de tine si amplificat de altii..

Poti, intr-adevar, doar sa-ti imaginezi. Adevarul este, insa, mult mai greu de inteles. 

N-ai sa stii niciodata furia care mocneste in mine cand ratacesc dintr-un loc in altul, fara sa gasesc o casa nicaieri. Singuratatea mea tot mai crescanda, tot mai multe tigari fumate, lacrimi zilnice, sfarsite uneori cu un urlet spre nicaieri..Nu ma aude nimeni, nu ma intelege nimeni.

Tot mai multe ore de somn, intr-o incercare penibila de a evita realitatea. Singura in camera mea, incapabila sa lupt pentru un viitor pe care nici nu-l mai vreau. Fara vise, dorinte sau idei.

Cartile stau acum inchise pe rafturi, nu vad niciun rost in a le deschide. Cuvinte mor si infloresc in minte, lacrimi si tacere. 

Distanta in familie, incapabila sa-mi mai recunosc prietenii, sa-i mai accept, sa-i mai iubesc. 

Plina de dor, furie si dezamagire. 

Caut psihologi, cumpar tigari, ma gandesc sa-mi fac suvite..

Vreau sa vizitez Italia. Dar nu chiar.

Nu mai vreau nimic. Nici macar sa traiesc.

De ce nu ne-am dus la Bucuresti? De ce nu ne-am petrecut tot restul zilelor astora mizere intr-o camera mica cu tavanul alb murdar? Cat de fericita as fi fost. Dar iata-ma.

Acesta e prezentul, aceasta sunt eu.

Mi-ar placea sa stiu cine esti tu... te gandesti vreodata la noi, la visul de a ne muta in capitala, ca doi copii pierduti in lume..Dar ce conteaza, atata timp cat ne-am fi pierdut impreuna...

Ascunsa

17 Decembrie 2017 

Au trecut fix trei luni de cand te-am vazut ultima oara. 
Imi amintesc ziua aia si cat de mult mi-am dorit sa nu fie acela sfarsitul. 
Azi, daca as putea sa ma intorc in timp, as opri totul acolo. 
Inainte sa se distruga toate amintirile frumoase cu niste rani pe care nu am cum sa le mai vindec. 
Sa termin tot atunci, cu acel ultim sarut. Cand credeam ca esti un om, daca nu bun, cel putin empatic.
Am inteles ca nu esti nici una, nici alta.
M-ai mintit de fiecare data. Ti-ai batut joc de mine. De ce ? 
Ti-am oferit tot ce am avut si chiar mai mult. Te-am iubit si te iubesc si ma doare chiar si sa respir, stiind ca n-am sa te mai vad, stiind ca pe tine nici macar nu te intereseaza.
Dar am invatat cateva lucruri.
Iubirea este cel mai gresit sentiment. Toate eforturile din lume n-or sa insemne nimic daca tu nu insemni nimic. Iar eu n-am insemnat, niciodata. 
Vorbele sunt nimic mai mult decat niste cuvinte spuse doar sa umple taceri care ar face, uneori, mult mai mult bine.
Oamenii mint si pleaca. Si nu le pasa.
Dar cea mai importanta lectie este aceea ca, o a doua sansa, nu trebuie sa existe. 
Te iubesc si am sa plang toata viata gandindu-ma la lucrul asta. La toata umilinta si durerea. 
Speram sa fie altfel. Speram sa fim altfel.
Acum sper doar sa raman impasibila la orice lucru care ar putea sa urmeze. Durerea aceasta este prea crunta, prea greu de descris. Fiecare zi incepe si se sfarseste cu lacrimi. Ma intreb cum este, fiecare zi, pentru tine. Cu siguranta fara niciun gand despre mine. 
Si e in regula. 

Ascunsa