Post 30 / After 30

Dupa 30 de ani iti bate maturitatea hotarata la usa si, fara sa te mai intrebe daca esti sau nu pregatita, se instaleaza in viata ta ca la ea acasa.

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Ai alternative: poti sa te obisnuiesti cu gandul ca nu esti perfecta (cine este, la o adica?) sau sa incepi frumos sa ocolesti oglinda, care iti tot aminteste nerusinata ca nu te-ai obisnuit cu realitatea cruda.

Incepi sa poti aminti in discurs fara jena sau fara vreun tremurat de barba numele organelor sexuale masculine si chiar sa ti le asumi din cand in cand, fara sa te mai amuze deloc ridicolul situatiei.

Iti faci fara sa vrei un sumar al esecurilor si succeselor inregistrate si incerci de acum inainte sa nu le lasi, pe niciunele, sa iti dirijeze viata.

Constati cu consternare si un zambet amar cat de mult semeni cu mama, aia pe care o huleai la varsta nebuna a adolescentei.

Devii mama cuiva, fie ca e copilul tau, carne din carnea ta, sau o persoana asupra careia versi toata mamicia din tine, ca trebuie sa o versi undeva, altfel te sufoca.

Mai simti din cand in cand cate un clocot in sange si, daca viata te lasa, te lasi purtata de val in niste nebunii despre care crezi ca o sa iti redea tineretea pe care o crezi pierduta.

Asta e strada pe care ea, intr-o noapte de septembrie, ca asta, a decis sa isi agate grijile cu o funie, de grinda. Tocmai implinise 30 de ani.

***

After 30 years, maturity comes knocking at your door and, without asking whether you are ready or not, settles into your life as if it were at home.

You have alternatives: you can get used to the thought that you're not perfect (who is, after all?) or you can start nicely avoiding the mirror, which keeps shamelessly reminding you that you're not used to the harsh reality.

You begin to be able to recall in speech without embarrassment or any shaking of the beard the names of the male sex organs and even assume them from time to time, no longer at all amused by the ridiculousness of the situation.

You unwittingly make a summary of your failures and successes and try from now on not to let them, any of them, run your life.

You find with dismay and a bitter smile how much you resemble your mother, the one you used to boo at the crazy age of adolescence.

You become someone's mother, whether it's your child, flesh of your flesh, or a person upon whom you pour all the motherhood in you, that you have to pour it somewhere, otherwise it suffocates you.

You feel a little boil in your blood from time to time and, if life lets you, you get carried away in some crazy thing you think will restore the youth you thought you lost.

This is the street she, on a September night like this one, decided to hang her worries on a rope, from the rafter. She had just turned 30.

Dor de mine / Missing myself

Numaram zile, saptamani, apoi luni. Acum numar ani. Ani in care uitarea creste in mine ca o pacla neagra, acoperindu-ma, sufocandu-ma. Din cand in cand prind cate o bula de aer si imi contemplez sufletul zbarcindu-se sub greutatea dorului.

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Nu mai stiu cum arati, cum respiri, cum zambesti. Cu fiecare noua zi aerul devine tot dens si presiunea dureroasa. Ma apasa toate, din toate partile primesc doar impulsuri violente. Ma chinui uneori sa pic, dar viata nu-mi da voie. Nu mai stiu nici sa respir.

Ma intreb uneori daca si tu ai uitat. Sau, mai bine, daca ai avut ce uita. Poate ca am ramas cu tine acolo, in universul nostru paralel pe care l-am construit pentru noi, jucand pentru o secunda rolul unui dumnezeu confuz si partinitor. Si poate ca acolo traiesc, in timp ce aici, in corpul meu in degradare, a ramas doar o iluzie, o palida stafie a ce am fost candva.

Imi sterg ochiul uscat, cu nostalgia lacrimilor de alta data si intorc privirea de la oglinda. Si ea ma minte, cum ma mint si eu.

***

I used to count days, weeks, then months. Now I count years. Years in which oblivion grows inside me like a black fog, covering me, suffocating me. Every now and then I catch a bubble of air and contemplate my soul buckling under the weight of longing.

I no longer know what you look like, how you breathe, how you smile. With each new day the air grows thicker and the pressure becomes painful. I'm pressed down by everything, from all sides I receive only violent impulses. Sometimes I struggle to fall, but life won't let me. I don't even know how to breathe.

Sometimes I wonder if you've forgotten too. Or, better, if there was something for you to forget. Maybe I'm left with you there, in our parallel universe that we've built for ourselves, playing for a second the role of a confused and biased god. And maybe that's where I live, while here, in my decaying body, I've remained only an illusion, a pale ghost of what I once was.

I wipe my dry eye, nostalgic for the tears of yesteryear, and look away from the mirror. And she lies to me, as I lie to myself.