Am spus de o mie de ori ca sunt obosita, ma plang de ani de zile si nu ma crede nimeni. “Esti tanara”, mi se zice, “ce o sa faci mai incolo?”. Tu, strainule cititor care ai picat din greseala pe pagina mea, esti plistisit deja sa mai auzi cat de obosita sunt, si nici tu nu intelegi de ce. Si eu m-am plictisit pe mine.
Mi-am dat seama aseara, in mijlocul unui hohot de plans, de ce sunt asa de obosita, de ce la 28 de ani ma simt de parca as fi carat in spate povara intregii lumi fara drept de pauza sau de racorire cu o gura de apa proaspata, din cand in cand. Mi-am dat seama ca niciuna dintre realizarile mele de pana acum, mari, mici, asa cum sunt ele, nu a fost usor de atins, ca pentru fiecare nimic pe care l-am facut in viata a trebuit sa dau muntii la o parte si apoi sa-i pun la loc, sa-mi rup ghearele si dintii luptand cu lumea, cu viata, cu soarta, cu prieteni si inamici, cu familie si falsi prieteni.
Si acum imi cereti sa fiu fresh?
Am sufletul ferferitit de atatea zbateri, am mintea zdrelita de planuri si incercari de a face totul perfect, da la carte. Poate ca unele lucruri nu trebuie sa fie facute ca la carte, poate ca ar fi mai sanatos sa le abordez altfel. Sau poate ar trebui sa ma odihnesc, sa iau o gura de aer in piept, sa pun punct si sa o iau de la capat, cautand cu disperare forte proaspete.
Casc si mai dau o pagina, cautand cu mana cealalta cana de cafea. Sunt atat de obosita…
***
I've said a thousand times that I'm tired, I've been complaining for years and nobody believes me. "You're young," they say, "what will you do later?". You, stranger reader who accidentally stumbled upon my page, are already crying to hear how tired I am, and you don't understand why either. And I'm bored with myself.
I realized last night, in the midst of a sobbing sob, why I'm so tired, why at 28 I feel like I've been carrying the burden of the whole world on my back without the right to take a break or refresh myself with a drink of fresh water now and then. I realized that none of my accomplishments so far, big, small as they are, have been easy to achieve, that for every little thing I've done in life I've had to push mountains aside and then put them back, break my claws and teeth fighting the world, life, fate, friends and enemies, family and false friends.
And now you're asking me to be fresh?
My soul is sore from so much struggle, my mind is racked with plans and attempts to make everything perfect, by the book. Maybe some things don't have to be done by the book, maybe it would be healthier to approach them differently. Or maybe I should rest, take a deep breath, put my foot down and start again, desperately looking for fresh strength.
I yawn and turn another page, reaching for the other coffee mug. I'm so tired...
