Dintr-o dimineata / Random morning

Piciorul tau drept paseste repede pe trotuarul umed, iar urma pasului tau dispare treptat, uscata de vantul de primavara.
Pe trotuar se tarasc melci multi, rataciti prin lumea moderna, fugiti sau pierduri din hatisul de ierburi de pe margine. Dupa-amiaza, cand soarele va fi uscat trotuarul si inainte de ploaia de seara, le pot urmari traseiul fara tinta care a lasat o urma mucoasa pe caldaram, la capatul careia se afla cadavrul proaspat al nefericitului. Ma napadeste un val de scarba amestecat cu mila, o stare pe care o experimentez zilnic, dar cu care nu ma pot obisnui deloc.
Analizez in tacere tatuajul generos de pe piciorul tau drept, un tatuaj ciudat, negru, cu forme rotunjite si colturi indraznete, un desen de vreo palma si jumatate, motiv tribal, sau rod al imaginatiei artistului, sau poate ceva care inseamna mult pentru tine. Ma amuz in sinea mea gandindu-ma, de fiecare data cand te vad, ca nu am mai vazut niciodata asa postas, sa semene cu Dr. House si sa aiba un tatuaj mare pe piciorul drept, si pantaloni trei sferturi.
Aici nimic nu e ca acasa. Nici eu macar nu mai sunt. M-am pierdut. Iar. Si nu mai e nimeni care sa ma gaseasca. Si eu am renuntat sa ma mai caut.
Maschez durerea sub un strat gros de nepasare, iritabilitate, bucurie mimata si negare. Ma doare propria fiinta, ma doare timpul pe care il simt in spate, ma doare absenta vocii tale, ma doare locul unde candva aveam o inima.
Piciorul tau drept, cu care calci stramb...

 

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Your right foot steps quickly across the wet pavement, and your footprint gradually disappears, dried by the spring wind.

Many snails crawl along the pavement, wandering through the modern world, fleeing or lost from the jumble of grasses along the edge. In the afternoon, when the sun will have dried the pavement and before the evening rain, I can follow their aimless trail that has left a mucous trail on the warmth, at the end of which lies the fresh corpse of the unfortunate. A wave of disgust mixed with pity overwhelms me, a state I experience daily but can't get used to at all.

I silently analyze the lavish tattoo on your right leg, a strange, black tattoo with rounded shapes and bold corners, a design about a palm and a half long, tribal motif, or figment of the artist's imagination, or perhaps something that means a lot to you. I amuse myself by thinking, every time I see you, that I've never seen such a postman, looking like Dr. House and with a big tattoo on his right leg, and three-quarter pants.

Nothing here is like home. I'm not even me anymore. I'm lost. And again. And there's no one left to find me. And I've given up looking for me.

I mask the pain under a thick layer of carelessness, irritability, mimed joy and denial. It hurts my own being, it hurts the time I feel behind me, it hurts the absence of your voice, it hurts the place where I once had a heart.

Your right foot, with which you stomp...