Ne schimbam, de la o generatie la alta, de la un an la altul, de pe o zi pe alta… Schimbarea, ca mecanism natural de adaptare a fiintei umane la noile conditii, ca mijloc de aparare de factorii externi din ce in ce mai agresivi, ne trasforma usor pe toti in gandaci de bucatarie, campioni in domeniul adaptabilitatii.
Si ma gasesc tarandu-ma prin viata, un gandac de bucatarie schiop, pentru ca ceva din mine nu s-a adaptat. Am invelisul tare, lucios, o aripa ascunde smechereste membrul beteag, ultima urma a ceea ce era odata.
Ma recunosc inca in oglinda. Imaginea e mai palida, culorile mai mate, amestecate intre ele, dar sunt acolo, nu m-am transformat, inca, intr-o straina. Inca un an in care timpul sa stea in loc, si nu mai promit nimic…
***
I was in seventh grade, I think, when this book, from the generic "Sandra Brown" series, was secretly circulating among the desks. We read it ravenously, greedy for the uncensored love scenes. In a few days we were reading the book from cover to cover, faster than we did any other required reading. I don't remember a line of the book, of the action, not even the dirty scenes described in detail. But I do remember the title, it's a metaphor that at the time meant nothing, but these days is so powerful and resonant.
We change, from one generation to the next, from one year to the next, from one day to the next... Change, as a natural mechanism of adaptation of the human being to new conditions, as a means of defence against increasingly aggressive external factors, easily turns us all into cockoaches, champions in the field of adaptability.
And I find myself crawling through life, a limping cockroach, because something in me hasn't adapted. I have hard, shiny shells, a wing clumsily hiding my drunken limb, the last vestige of what once was. I still recognize myself in the mirror. The image is paler, the colours duller, blended together, but I am there, I have not yet become a stranger. One more year of time standing still, and no more promises...
