Ziceam mai ieri de versuri transparente, mult prea transparente ca sa le iau ca sursa de inspiratie, si asta m-a purtat cu gandul usor la Minulescu, si la serile alea magice, de acum vreo... 20 de ani (uf, cum suna asta...), cand tu completai integrame, fumai tigara dupa tigara, si imi recitai din Minulescu. Iar eu stateam cu o ureche in radio, cu genunchii la gura, cu ochii mari si cu inima alergand aiurea prin bancile scolii, pentru ca usor, usor, incepusem sa iubesc. Cand ramaneam singura imi rupeam din suflet si insiram pe hartie franturi din ce simteam, in cea mai inocenta si mai naiva forma, versuri de inceput, povesti nevinovate, ganduri razlete, nelinistit si tulburari care nu aveau sa ajunga niciodata la destinatar.
Ma gandesc acum cat de ciudat e ca ani la rand m-am prostit cu ideea ca ne e dat sa iubim o singura data in viata, pana la lacrimi, pana la sange, pana la moarte. Si asta m-a facut sa ascund in uitare toate rascolirile de alta data, sa ma prefac ca nu eram eu, ca nu ma doare ce n-a iesit, ca nu a existat, ca nu m-a marcat, ca nu am trait, nu am visat, nu am plans, nu am strans din dinti amar. Si cum ajung toate sa se razbune...
Am luat de la tine sufletul sensibil, capacitatea de a simti puternic, uneori mai puternic decat ma tin picioarele, puterea de a exprima. As fi vrut sa mai stai, sa ma inveti cum trec peste un esec, cum ascund o durere, cum imi explic niste schimbari, cum sa ma prefac ca sunt bine atunci cand nu sunt... As fi vrut sa ma asculti acum, sa ma ghidezi, sa imi spui in ce parte sa caut raspusul, daca e vreo sansa sa il gasesc vreodata, ascuns printre alte banalitati.
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I have a new preoccupation: I'm constantly digging into my brain to find what else to blog about. And as much has already been said, even by me, in the 5 posts (or however many there are), the task is quite hard. And it's good that it's hard, because I've never chased the easy stuff.
I was talking yesterday about transparent verses, far too transparent to take them as inspiration, and that led me to think back easily to Minulescu, and those magical evenings, some... 20 years ago (ugh, how does that sound...), when you were filling in crossword puzzles, smoking cigarette after cigarette, and reciting Minulescu to me. And I was sitting with one ear to the radio, knees to my mouth, eyes wide and heart running wild in the school benches, because slowly, slowly, I was beginning to love. When I was left alone I would tear from my soul and paste on paper fragments of what I was feeling, in the most innocent and naive form, beginning verses, innocent stories, rambling thoughts, restlessness and turmoil that would never reach the intended recipient.
I think now how strange it is that for years I fooled myself with the idea that we are given to love only once in our lives, to tears, to blood, to death. And that made me hide in oblivion all the laughter of another time, to pretend it wasn't me, that I didn't hurt what didn't come out, that it didn't exist, that it didn't mark me, that I didn't live, didn't dream, didn't cry, didn't grit my bitter teeth. And how they all end up taking revenge...
I took from you the sensitive soul, the ability to feel strongly, sometimes stronger than my legs hold me, the power to express. I wish you'd stayed, to teach me how to get over a failure, how to hide a pain, how to explain changes, how to pretend I'm fine when I'm not... I wish you'd listen to me now, guide me, tell me where to look for the answer, if there's any chance I'll ever find it, hidden among other trivialities.
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