Thought of the day

Brave people inspire me so much. There’s something so powerful in having this virtue.

Saying the things that should be said, doing the things that should be done while being truthful and aiming for the highest good.

But it shouldn’t even be that dramatic. Just start with the smallest things. Try tell no for a chance if you’re always too shy to refuse someone. Say ‘I love you’ to your mom after you finish the phone call. Let the one you miss know. Speak your mind if lies are told with the price of being ostracized. Ask if you need something. It may be a silly advice but I often find myself so terrified of asking certain questions.

Cowards are disgraceful. And daily I keep fighting that part of me. Regrets, regrets, regrets. They’ll eat you from the inside. And it’s better to be able to sleep at night and having been through some uncomfortable moments, let’s say, than wishing you would’ve done something that seemed right.


Morena del sol

I saw her slowly getting out of the ocean, rays of sunshine melting onto her chocolate skin, drops of water touching the hot white sand.

– It’s like wet happiness waking me up to life, she started shouting, her dimples harmonizing her features, her eyes invading mines with joy.

– Ain’t I a lil bit pretentious, love? she said, kneeling on the bright towel, salty lips brushing tenderly against mine. I’ve cupped her face with my hands removing a few of dark hair strands from her forehead, as she tickled my chin with her eyelashes.

– I dig pretentious, I chuckled and she looked away, closing her eyes, breathing deeply, smiling.
– Like you had a choice, she mumbled biting my ear. Now let’s go grab something to make my belly happy, she’s been lonely there lately.

As if I was hungry, being with her, tasting her, feeding my thoughts and soul from her presence, nothing else mattered, not even starving biologically. Know the feeling? Being too full with happiness, that you’re scared even to move thinking you could disturb the Universe . The linguistics too shallow for the ineffable love one can have for another being… just you know, how she got scared whenever a so called huge wave came her way, her eyes widening, mouthing “rolling in the deeep” and then jumping towards it, the way she squinted her eyes when she had no sunglasses on, trying to elucidate the mysteries of the horizon, how she licked her index finger while she turned another page of Lolita. And that ankle bracelet looked so cute wrapped around her little feet.

If Aphrodite and Ishtar were real goddesses, man, there will be a new Iliad, hybrys upon her, Greek and Akkadian ancient gods uniting because, you see, my love, was an imminent, infallible light to ones life. That was her hamartia, and she didn’t even know.
I grabbed her gently from the waist, putting her on my lap, and I whispered:
– I need you fueled with food, kiddo. Let’s go.
She brushed her fingers through my hair and pulled me next to her face
– Me? You haven’t eaten anything all morning!
– But your mystery feeds me, it’s like I’m always floating. The psychotic drowns in the same waters the mystic swims with delight.
Because I only craved her for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and I will my whole entire life. She pushed me playfully on the sand, her bronze cheeks highlighted with a pale rozè.

– Wilde would be envious with your choice of words, mister charming, she laughed.
And right there, under the fairy-like violet sky with its pink and yellow shades, listening the waves washing the shore, evanescing into the wet sand with all of my worries. Right there, with her smell of warm vanilla and salt water imprinted in my nostrils, I knew she was inked on my heart, and to remove her, suffering was inevitable.

Short story (pt. I)

I felt sick to my stomach and the blood ran out of my body. She was the only one I wanted to speak to in this moment, but she wasn’t here anymore. That’s what they said. I wanted to tell her about someone who died, but I couldn’t comprehend that that someone was my love.

Nononononono! this is a dream no a nightmare haha a bad joke I must wake up yes yes

I hit myself.

No rêverie no nightmare. But I’m still here and the pain is flooding my body like venom. Why. Why. I throw up. Maybe I have misunderstood.
David’s voice was still piercing my ears and heart : suicide, man.
I laid on the cold marble starring at the ceiling. How can a person process this kind of information? I should ran out of the door up there but my reactions were delayed by my lost of cognition. Numbness. Like when you’re in a dream and something chases you and cannot run faster by any means and everything seems in slow motion.
I’ve finally found an energy residue and pulled myself on my feet after who knows how long, put a shirt on and rushed out of the door. I didn’t grab my car keys or jacket .
I wanted to run. To exhaust this flesh that was bleeding despair.
It must’ve taken me one hour to get at her apartment. My legs were so shaky when I reached her block that I’ve collapsed in front of the entrance. I didn’t feel any pain, the adrenaline took care of it. I didn’t even see the police and ambulance outside.
Someone exited the building and I got in.
First floor, apartment 5. Lots of strangers outside taking notes and speaking to each other .

Get out get out get out, I wanted to yell

How can we be so alive next to a breathless corpse? It’s like we’re defying it. It’s so peculiar.

There she was on the bed, her tiny body covered with a sheet. People stopped talking and David came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder muttering I think ‘sorry’, but I was deaf . Everything seemed like a horror movie that I wanted so bad to end. Void all around me, emptiness and the sound of death.
There I was next to the light of my life that went out and I have pulled that thing off her face. She was so beautiful that I was afraid of waking her up. But there was no life in that chest . Porcelain face with long dark lashes. Her under-eyes looked like purple twilights over the dark forests. I could still see her white teeth peaking between the pale lips. I knew them so well, every curve, every line, every shade.
I didn’t even noticed that I was mourning in despair . Her shoulder was wet by my tears. Strays of her hazel hair touched her cheek. The were no roses anymore in them.
She was wearing her silk black robe. I wanted to sit there next to my love and sleep the pain away. Forever.
She was so cold, so cold that my heart convulsed. I kneed in front of the bed and grabbed her hand, slipping my fingers through hers. Her nails were painted bright red resembling blood droplets contrasting with the pale skin. The irony.
Why why why I kept screaming and punching the wall next to me until David pulled me back and hugged me.

I know, I know. Come here, let’s talk, he whispered.

To be continued… 💗

Thought of the day #4

Have you ever been on the street or in a public place, listening to a song and you just wanna burst out dancing? If so, you are pretty weird. I like you.

This is my daily struggle, the seed of my suffering, the moon to my stars, the bad espresso to my day the… Well you get the idea.
Its like tourette syndrome but with body movements. Well, I guess I’m ok.
But really though, life would be a better place with people dancing around. I mean not like dionysiac bacchae, more like apolinic-calliopeish kinda dance, if there would have been one.

Ill leave you with the wise words of my tormented friend Frederich Nietzsche :

Unless you’re schizophrenic, that’s not romantic.

Mai traim si pentru noi? (II)

Viata mea

Sautare, salutare! M-as dezvinovati spunand ca am fost uber ocupata si n-am avut timp sa scriu, dar ar functiona exact ca promisunea de  a invata in vacanta pentru sesiune.

Nu i așa că e frustrant să începi un proiect, să îți urmezi o idee și să o abandonezi, în timp ce ai mustrări de conștiința, dar stai ca o plăcintă caldă cu brânză? Cam așa e viața mea. De aia mă duc la sală.
Să scriu e un travaliu câteodată, parcă mă duc la priveghi. Mă holbez la ecran, la tastatură, văd că e murdară, o mai dau cu spirt. După aia mă conving că e foarte probabil să funcționeze cu pixul. Nu pe laptop, dar ați ghicit, în agenda mea cu sclipici care are pe copertă și un mesaj motivațional în engleză: “Ești briliantă”. Apreciez. Mai rar agende așa.
Ideea e că îmi screm profund celulele nervoase, îmi înjur imaginația (de parcă e vina dânsei) și produsul este uneori hilar și deprimant. Am poezii și texte la care mă prăpădesc de râs după ce le citesc, zici că am autism. The point is: nu contează produsul finit să exceleze, nu contează dacă e prost, dacă e bun. Contează să izvorască dintr un proces pur de magie creativa, în care tu imbratisezi ideile si stai cu ele la o cafea.

large (1)Dar câteodată inspirația mă lovește în cele mai bizare și incomode momente. Iubesc asta. Mă apuc să scriu pe stradă, exact ca acum. A trebuit să pun pauză la un video educativ. Hotline bling. Îmi vine să scriu când mă pun în pat și îmi vine să plâng de somn. Am lângă mine post-it-uri și un pix. Notez ideile cu ochii închiși. Dimineață sunt o revelație și atât de comice.E totul dezarticulat, ciudat, dar autentic. Nu original, autentic. Nu mai există originalitate. Cică: “fii original”. Apăi cum să fiu EU originală dacă totul e scris și rescris continuu. În teatru, toți au încercat să-l egaleze pe Shakespeare. El a tratat sublim toate temele ontologice, ce să mai facă ceilalți? Pur și simplu toţi au irumpt toată autenticitatea pe care au avut-o în ei, erau ca niște vulcani, mii de Vezuvii. Extrapolând, e valabil în orice domeniu.
M-am luptat până acum cu incertitudinile, cu fricile, cu tristețile. Ba că nu-s originală, că nu-s destul de creativa, că nu sunt destul de deșteaptă nu sunt aia, aia, aia.
Fata de cine?
Cine îmi poate îngrădi creația? Care sunt limitele şi parametrii în care ea se joacă? Cred că e datoria noastră să împrăştiem ce s-a pus în noi, ca vase de aur ce suntem. Să ne înmulţim talanţii, ca să-i avem sub saltea nu o să ne ajute la nimic.
Nu zic că trebuie să schimbe lumea creaţia ta, să fie genială, să placă oamenilor, trebuie să te elibereze. E foarte probabil ca ceea ce purcede să le pară altora o tâmpenie, o inadecvare, o inutilitate. Și ce? Atâtea comori zac în noi, iar noi le irosim cum fac ăștia cu Roșia Montană. E, cum să zic, o obligație dulce și ne imperativa pe care toți suntem chemați să o îndeplinim.
O să zic ceva ce nu vrem să auzim. Ești temporar pe Pământ. Un efemer. Nimănui nu o să îi mai pese de tine după ce închizi ochii. Frica e o pompa de dezumflat saltele gonflabile, dar asta nu inseamna ca trebuie sa o suprimi. Pleci la drum cu ea, dar nu o lasi sa conduca. Sta pe bancheta din spate.
Ce papanașul măsii aștepți?
Nu e ușor deloc, adică sunt șanse foarte mari să eșuezi dacă te expui. E probabil ca o persoană din lumea asta să îl considere magnific, iar restul să râdă de tine și să considere o imbecilitate deprimantă ce faci.
Dar sunt tot atâtea șanse să schimbi o viață, să fii un mesager al frumosului, să fii împlinit.
Dacă toți titanii acestei lumi trăiau în frica de a nu fi criticați, n-am mai fi citit “Mândrie și prejudecată”, n-am mai fi admirat tablouri de Monet și probabil n-am fi ascultat simfonii de Beethoven.
Criticăm și suntem criticați, dar e o linie fină între ură și observație. Pentru Nabokov, Dostoievski a fost un scriitor mediocru cu un pic de umor iar restul fiind platitudini literale. Mno, cu tot respectu’, domnu’ teoretician, să fie Lolita sănătoasă, da’ ești chișat. Deci e vorbă de geniul literaturii ruse și TU zici că are complexe Freudiene.
Dar asta zic, dacă s-a zis asta despre Dostoievski, cu siguranță despre mine, ca muritoare, mâncătoare de ovăz, se pot zice lucruri mult mai urate.
Așa că, face-ţi, mă, ceva cu ideile și creativitatea aia.

Incepem cu iubitele cadouri din iarna asta. ❤large (2)