Trains

"I would jump in front of a train for you" she whispered. He laughed nervously and he said something like "Don't do that, please", and she realised that he had no idea what she meant. She later explained the difference between "jumping for you" and "jumping because of you", pretending she would never do the later. He looked at her scared and the message hit his walls that were getting higher and higher with every word she said. For her it was just another romantic talk to remember, something sweet she told him while kissing his face and hands and hair. For him it was just another scary thing she said, because he did not see things the way she did. Nobody had ever jumped in front of any train, real or imaginary, neither for him, nor because of him. He was used to being pushed in front of imaginary trains and to a really messed up level that was what he thought love was. So she scared the hell out of him. This girl must be crazy... She was left alone on the life's railway, gazing in the horizon and asking what she could have done differently. She sometimes stares at trains and remembers the talk and contemplates about the possibility of taking one of those trains and leaving all behind. Because he took one train and ran away, leaving her in the train station, eyes drown in tears, waving a handkerchief like an old fashioned hopeless idiot. But if she takes another train, the pain will come with her, traveling in the same body to a different place. She would do anything to make the pain go away, train or no train, even cover it with a bigger pain in the body. Soul pain is the worst, makes you lose your mind and wish you were dead. Death must be sweeter than this, she says. She wonders sometimes if a pile of flesh left after the impact with a train would hurt as badly as a broken soul. But that would mean jumping in front of a train because of him, not for him. And she promissed not to... Trains come and go. She stays, no longer waiting, no longer hoping. She dies a bit with every train she has no courage to jump in front of.

Permissions

I kindly ask permission to suffer. I need time off to fall on the cold ground and feel it all, to collect my thoughts, to solve all the puzzles, to make sense of it all, reconstruct the truth, and breath. I need to fall deep, to the darkest abyss of them all, to feel the fear and the terror and to survive it, and to use that cold bottom as a trampoline to jump back in the game.  I need permission to be fully live for a bit, to bleed it all out, cry, shout, suffocate and breath deeply again, till I live the moment, till I gain the power to be back with you. I need permission to dissapear and to pretend and to lie and to play games and to be mean and cruel, to hide my face in order to make sure I survive this. I need to be coward for a bit, just to be able to show the courage I hold inside me.  I kindly ask permission not to care anymore, to treat all the rest with a fake smile, to turn my back at their laughter, to send them all to hell with a smile.  I kindly ask permission to search for the power to hate, the greatest power of them all. I want to hate in order to survive and to want to survive. I want the power to cross a bridge withour losing myself in denial and hope.  I kinkly ask permission to live. And to leave, to go away from it all, to hide my face for a while and uncover it later, all cried and changed forever, carved by pain and regret and questions.  I kindly ask permission to grief the loss of my soul and to wait for its return to my body, as I am empty like an airoport during pandemic, and scared and alone.  Permission granted.

Run

Source

You run and you run, you barely turn your head, just careful where you step, finding obstacles and surpassing them artististicly. Than you put on half a smile, satisfied. 

And you run and you run. Behind you a history of pain, around you questions unanswered, in front of you the fog of uncertainty. 

And you run and you run. At times you fall. Sometimes you hurt your knees and that makes it difficult to go on running. But you always find a nice way around it. Other times you step in mud and you stop a bit to look at yourself disgusted. But you hope for a rain to wash it all off.

And you run and you run. Here and there passers-by wisper in your ears "manipulation". Other hold red flags up high and they nearly pull them straight to your eyes. You stop a bit, reflect, breath in, and go again.

And you run and you run. Your feet get tired and painful, but they are trained to run. I mean, what is the alternative, freeze? Or maybe..fight?

And you run and you run...

Thinking of you

Days were long and night were cold,

Hope was thin and darkness thick,

Loneliness behind the corner.

But she only thought of you.

Worried over your long absence,

Excited over a certain look you gave,

Concerned over the future,

She would only think of you.

Your smile brought the sunlight,

Your absence brought the storm.

Her eyes would call you day and night

And she only thought of you.

And you loved her, then you left her,

Then came back, then left again,

Every day a new surprise.

But she only thought of you.

And she loved you, and she scared you,

And she gave to you her all

Hoping to get you for herself

Because she only thought of you.

As her lips were turning silent

And her look was getting grey

She was wondering if she ever

Would only stop thinking of you.

Dirty window

There is blood on the window between the two of them.

Their small and secret window where they used to stare each other in the eyes and always take care to keep it clean, shiny and transparent, is stained with fresh poppy coloured blood. The hideous thing is dripping lazy all around. And they stare at the stain with no expression on their faces.

The words cut through her unprepared flesh like the angry teeth of an savage animal. She was watching her reflection on the trains that kept coming and going and she was wondering when did he ever find the time and skills to sharpen them so good and train them so well, like he had wanted to make sure the damage was guaranteed. 

At first she put some pressure on the wounds and took some distance, like a beaten dog gone away to care for herself. But then she called him back for more. She was hoping for a bandaid, but she got some more teeth. Sharper. Or maybe just as sharp, except this time the words bit her on the fresh wound. And the pain went through her bones, as the blood was splashing the spotless window.

When it was all done they tried to share the old looks through the window. But their faces seemed diformed. She tried to fake a smile hoping to bring the sun to help get some clarity, she even shed a tear or more to wash the stain away. But it was still blurry. And bloddy. And strange. And scary. 

Source

Now they stay close to the window, their foreheads separated by the glass alone, breathing quietly and waiting for a summer rain to wash away the mess.

And if there will be a dry summer, question remains who will wash away the remainings of the beast's feast on the window...

Lost

Tired. Not of you, but of the struggle, of the moments of silence, dispair, solitude. Of uncertainty. Of the constant risk of losing it all, even of I never even had it.

Scared and alone in my madness, facing decisions I never thought I'd consider, with no backup, no hopes and no promises. 

The closer I get, the further you run. And the higher I climb the harder I fall. I am full of bruises and my feet are tired for running. Yet, it takes a glimpse at the sparkle in those eyes to make my engine run again.

And I gave it all, played all my cards, used all my amunnition, my guns are laying dead on the floor and my misteries are open books on your table - sometimes you look at them intrigued, but some other times you close them and you put them away, for later, way later...

And I act grown up till I'm alone and the monsters show their ugly faces from behind the courtins. And I shake till the morning, waiting, hoping, praying.

If only you read me all the times...

Unlovable

Source

Love me when I feel there is nothing to be loved in me, when my face is ugly, body deformed, voice uncomprehensible and behaviour rude. 

Love me when I feel nobody else does it, when all the dark clouds crowd above my head and follow me everywhere, when even hope is black and far away.

Love me when I am unfriendly and sarcastic, when I try to spread pain around me so I am no longer different from the rest of them. 

Love me when I send you away, when my eyes tell you to go, even if my voice could never say it, when I lock myself deep and desperately need you to have a peak inside and save me, but I'm not saying it.

Love me when I trust you least and I pretend I could make it without you, when I use you as my punching bag just because you are the closest.

Love me when I feel I am slipping into the abyss but refuse to reach for your hand. Bombard me with love when I am wearing my armour and act defensively expecting ignorance.

Love me when I am unsure and aggressive for no reason, when I talk nonsense, make accusations and suppositions with no ground at all, when my logics seems berried in the ground with little chances of ever coming back.

Love me when I write and love me when I don't. Love me when I'm immature and irrational.

Love me when I desperately need a hug but I refuse to ask for it. And love me when I steal that hug without considering the consequences.

Love me when I am unlovable, and if I get no better, say it and show it. Because if you love me then, when I need it the most, I will eventually learn that I deserve it and little by little I will stop being unlovable ever again.

You can't kill the sun

 "You can't kill the sun" she said, her brown wet eyes stairing at him in dispair. "You can cover your skin and belongings to protect them for damage, as you well know how it can sometimes burn.

You can find ways to enjoy its gentle kiss on your face every day and benefit from its wormth and energy without focusing what damage it could cause.

Or you could lock inside and put down the blinders and pretend the sun is no longer there, but do not be naive, the sun will still shine out there, rising proudly every morning and setting satisfied in the evening, in the most incredible mix of orange and blue one could ever come to imagine.

There will be darker days when you will feel the taste of success thinking the sun is gone. But deep inside you'll know better…

Eventually due to the lack of light your skin will become transparent and the smile will fade away. You'll slowly forget the sweet taste of a sunny day and all will look like a dream or a movie, as your skin will be wet and cold and unresponsive.

The things around you, the ones you tried so hard to protect taking them away from the sun's path, will slowly lose their glow as there will be no power reflecting in them. They will learn to live without the sun and take you as their hero, for a while. They will be pale and sad and when old enough they will build dark houses with small windows covered by thick blinders. And one day the sun will kiss them too and that day you will fall from your hero throne.

Source

You can also choose to walk the world with a blindfold around your pretty eyes. But the sun will still be there burning your skin, trying hard to reflect in your eyes and warm your soul. The people around you will watch you with compassion and try to guide you from time to time. But there would never be any blue or orange in your life, just the sweet memory of the games they do every day on the sky when the time is right."


He looked her in the eyes with a half smile. And because there, in her eyes - the same eyes in the drawing, mixing some strange sadness, playfulness and mistery in a way he had never managed to completely understand - the sun was playing carelessly causing a random ray to reflect in his blue eyes, he decided to put down the blinders and go in his small dark corner to cry for a bit.

Aniversare neagra / Black Anniversary

In casa e cald si pace, miroase  a placinta cu mere si scortisoara. Stam langa bradul impodobit si luminitele ni se joaca pe chipuri. Suntem pregatiti de sarbatoare.

Sunt ani de cand imi canalizez energiile in ajun de Sarbatori pentru a crea noi amintiri. Imi imaginez ca asa voi reusi la un moment dat sa acopar cu ras de copil si clinchet de clopotei zgomotul infernal al taranii aruncate pe sicriul tau.

Sunt 22 de ani in seara asta de cand te-am vazut ultima data. De la usa te-ai intors pentru o secunda parca si te-ai uitat in urma cautandu-mi privirea. Si am cam stiut ca era ultima data... Am ramas acasa cu toate cumparaturile facute pentru Craciun, cu bradul impodobit si cu un imens gol in piept.

Am sters dara de sange lasata in urma ta pe chiuveta.

In urmatoarele 24 de ore copilul din mine a murit. L-am ingropat in bratele tale in cimitirul ala rece si trist. L-am mai simtit odata cand franghia ai nemernica te cobora in fundurile pamantului. Si am urlat ca un animal ranit.

Si asteptand vestea cruda am facut sarmale. Primele mele sarmale. Si friptura. Opera mea gastronomica a fost foarte apreciata la priveghi. Eu nu situ daca am gustat din ele.

Ce mult ti-ar placea azi, tata! Cat de mult ai butona la laptop si ce expert in smarphonuri ai fi! Si cum ai vizita toata lumea si savura betia de informatie!

Dar nu mai esti... A ramas doar senzatia asta de durere surda care ma intuneca in preajma Craciunului, vina ca nu apuc sa-ti vad mormantul decat rareori si privirea aia pe care o am inca vie memorie.

22 de ani.

***

It's warm and peaceful in the house, smells like apple pie and cinnamon. We sit by the decorated tree and the lights play on our faces. We're ready for the holiday.

I've been channelling my energies on the eve of the holidays for years to create new memories. I imagine that this is how I'll manage at some point to drown out the infernal noise of the dust being thrown on your coffin with a child's laughter and clanging bells.

It's 22 years tonight since I last saw you. From the doorway you turned for a second as if and looked back searching my gaze. And I kind of knew it was the last time... I stayed home with all the Christmas shopping, the decorated tree and a huge hole in my chest.

I wiped the blood stain off from the sink.

In the next 24 hours, my inner child died. I buried him in your arms in that cold, sad cemetery. I felt it once before when your bitch rope was lowering you to the ground. And I howled like a wounded animal.

And waiting for the cruel news I made sarnale. My first sarmale. And roast beef. My gastronomic work was much appreciated at the wake. I don't know if I've tasted it.

How you'd love it today, Dad! How much you'd be typing on your laptop and what an expert on smartphones you'd be! And how you'd visit every place and enjoy the information binge!

But you're no longer here... All that's left is this dull ache that darkens me around Christmas, the guilt that I rarely get to see your grave and that look I still have in my memory.

Twenty-two years.

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...

 

***

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...

Alta / Another one

Intr-o alta viata as urca cate un munte in fiecare zi, echipata cu un rucsac care sa imi care toata bogatia si toate grijile, as cutreiera lumea cu sau fara tine, purtandu-te mereu in gand si avand grija ca toata lumea sa stie asta.

Intr-o alta viata as trai de zece ori mai mult in fiecare secunda, suprimandu-mi lacrimile in spatele unui zambet urias care sa ma cucereasca chiar si pe mine.

Sursa foto

Intr-o alta viata te-as iubi patimas, fara rusine, fara regrete, fara limite, fara grija de gura lumii, de reguli si de obstacole. Si m-ai iubi si tu, pentru ca intr-o alta viata as fi altfel, imposibil de neiubit, as fi tot ce nu sunt acum, fara tot ce ma face sa plang si sa bantui ca o stafie trista prin viata asta. Si nu ai inceta sa ma iubesti, pentru ca ar fi viata mea perfecta, diferita de asta, intr-o lume utopic de buna.

O alta viata nu m-ar darama, ci m-ar face mai puternica. As face totul altfel, sau la fel, dar mai bine. As transforma regretele in oportunitati, as rasturna lumi, as crea altele. Si as scrie carti, pentru a potoli vocile neobosite care ma bantuie zile si nopti, cu fraze pline de inteleseri clare numai mie, cu metafore amare, cu simboluri opace.

Ne vedem acolo.

***

In another life I would climb a mountain every day, equipped with a backpack to carry all my wealth and all my worries, I would travel the world with or without you, always carrying you in my mind and making sure everyone knew it.

In another life I would live ten times longer every second, suppressing my tears behind a huge smile that would conquer even myself.

In another life I would love you passionately, without shame, without regrets, without limits, without caring about the world's mouth, rules and obstacles. And you would love me too, because in another life I would be different, impossible to unlove, I would be everything I am not now, without everything that makes me cry and stalk like a sad ghost through this life. And you wouldn't stop loving me, because that would be my perfect life, different from this one, in a utopian good world.

A different life wouldn't make me weak, it would make me stronger. I'd do everything differently, or the same, but better. I would turn regrets into opportunities, I would turn worlds upside down, I would create new ones. And I would write books, to quiet the relentless voices that haunt me day and night, with phrases full of meanings clear only to me, with bitter metaphors, with opaque symbols.

See you there.

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.

Sursa foto

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.

Sursa foto

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.

When September ends

Ultimul septembrie pe care mi-l amintesc a durat vreo 9 luni.

Sursa foto

Totul a mers "ca la carte": mai intai a picat o frunza galbena, asa, din senin, ca in cantecul ala, m-a izbit in viata mea roz, a tulburat putin oglinda apei.
Apoi au aparut si alte frunze, din ce in ce mai multe, mai galbene, mai uscate, care ma napadeau din toate partile, imi intrau in suflet, in ochi, in viata. Dar mergeam tantosa, cu capul sus, ignorandu-le.
Apoi am inceput o lupta nebuna cu ele, dadeam din maini, picioare, urlam, sa le fac sa dispara. Dar ele se tot strangeau, sufocandu-ma.
Intr-o zi m-au ingropat... Afara era un soare cald, de septembrie, insa eu il vedeam sangeriu. Ganduri dintre cele mai stranii imi inundau mintea. Citeam carti pe care nu mi le mai amintesc, urmaream seriale ore intregi, ma plimbam prin parc si ma surprindeam stergandu-mi lacrimi de pe obraz, cu toate ca nu ma gandeam la nimic. Si ma cufundam in depresie in fiecare zi mai mult, mai greu, mai periculos.
Apoi, am inceput sa accept treptat ca voi purta mereu in suflet o urma de septembrie, ca galbenul, ca ma prinde sau nu, va deveni o culoare obligatorie a garderobei sufletului meu, ca unele lucruri sunt facute sa nu se intample, ca...

Dupa 9 luni am invatat subit sensul expresiei "cui pe cui se scoate". Fara prea multa pasiune pentru ironie, a trebuit sa o accept, sa o imbratisez, sa o iubesc, sa o povestesc. Alte 9 luni dupa asta mi-am rontait temerile, strofocandu-ma continuu sa nu le las pe ele sa ma rontaie pe mine. M-am transformat, reinventat, m-am pregatit pentru "ce-o fi, o fi", pentru mine, cea de acum, si pentru el.

Nu numai in septembrie imi amintesc de acel septembrie. Septembrie merge cu mine pretutindeni, e parte din cine sunt, il regasesc in oglinda, in scrierile mele, in felul in care relationez cu oamenii, in ochii lui, cei fara griji si plini de inocenta.

Hai, frunza galbena...

***

The last September I remember lasted about 9 months.

Everything went "by the book": first a yellow leaf fell, just like that, out of the blue, like in that song, it hit me in my pink life, it disturbed the water mirror a bit.

Then other leaves appeared, more and more, yellower and yellower, drier and drier, and they covered me from all sides, they entered my soul, my eyes, my life. But I walked around, head held high, ignoring them.

Then I started a mad fight with them, waving my hands, kicking, screaming, to make them disappear. But they kept squeezing, choking me.

One day they buried me... Outside it was a warm September sun, but I could see it was bleeding. The strangest thoughts flooded my mind. I was reading books I can't remember, watching TV series for hours, walking in the park and catching myself wiping tears from my cheeks, even though I wasn't thinking about anything. And I was sinking deeper, harder, more dangerously into depression every day.

Then I gradually began to accept that I will always carry a trace of September in my soul, that yellow, whether it catches me or not, will become a mandatory color of my soul's wardrobe, that some things are made not to happen, that...

After 9 months I suddenly learned the meaning of the phrase "nail on the head". Without much passion for irony, I had to accept it, embrace it, love it, tell it. Another 9 months after that I nagged my fears, continually stroking myself not to let them nag me. I transformed myself, reinvented myself, prepared myself for "what will be, will be", for me, the now, and for him.

It's not just September I remember that September. September goes with me everywhere, it's part of who I am, I find it in the mirror, in my writing, in the way I relate to people, in its eyes, the carefree and innocent ones.

Come on, yellow leaf...

Transparent

Ceata era groasa si umeda, invada interiorul si exteriorul. Ochii trecatorilor lacrimau in cautarea claritatii, brobonele de apa se scurgeau haotic pe ochelari, posete, poposeau pe firele de par rebele, intrau in suflete, reci si clare.

Rochia lunga, cu falduri generoase, usoara si cocheta, nu mai ascundea nimic, era si ea o ceata. Intr-o lume opaca, am ales transparenta totala, plimbandu-ma printre straini cu labirintul sentimentelor la vedere. Stive de vorbe nespuse, aruncate la intamplare, fara a-si mai gasi vreodata locul, alergau prin ceata densa.

Oamenii treceau prin mine, neatenti la dezastrul ce ma tinea ascunsa privirilor lor nepasatoare, si

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fiecare trecere strica si mai tare echilibrul fragil al elementelor care compuneau totul pe care il reprezentam.

Transparenta si invizibila, imi petreceam zilele sortand caractere, punadu-le in sertare mici, incuidu-le pe unele in locuri pe care speram sa nu le mai vizitez vreodata. In zilele cand prea multi calatori treceau absenti prin transparenta mea obscura, seara ma prindea cautand raspunsuri si solutii, varsand lacrimi pe cat de invizibile, pe atat de nimicitor de fierbinti. Si atunci am inceput sa te caut.

Erai o alta silueta ratacita, in noaptea aia cetoasa, ce parea eterna, o alta transparenta absoluta, cu teancurile ei dezordonate de trairi ascunse, cu franturi de povesti din alta lume, cu sperante si cioburi de vise. Te vedeam pentru ca eram atat de transparenta, cu nimic de ascuns, cu un curaj nebun de a schimba totul, acolo, pe loc, de a intoarce roata destinului care ma calcase in picioare fara mila.

Pentru ca in negura groasa ingerii sunt mai vizibili pentru cei care ii cauta bezmetici de nopti intregi, sperand ca, transparenta peste transparenta, sa isi recapete conturul, viata, visele.

***

The fog was thick and wet, invading inside and out. The eyes of passers-by watered in search of clarity, water bubbles dripped chaotically onto glasses, purses, landed on stubborn hairs, entered souls, cold and clear.

The long dress, generously folded, light and flirtatious, hid nothing, it too was a mist. In an opaque world, I chose total transparency, walking among strangers with the labyrinth of feelings on display. Stacks of unspoken words, thrown haphazardly, never finding their place, ran through the dense fog.

People passed me by, oblivious to the disaster that kept me hidden from their uncaring eyes, and each passage further upset the fragile balance of the elements that made up everything I represented.

Transparent and invisible, I spent my days sorting characters, putting them in little drawers, locking some in places I hoped I would never visit again. On days when too many travelers passed absently through my obscure transparency, evenings caught me searching for answers and solutions, shedding tears as invisible as they were hot. And that's when I started looking for you.

You were another lost silhouette, in that foggy night that seemed eternal, another absolute transparency, with its messy piles of hidden traumas, with shards of stories from another world, with hopes and shards of dreams. I was seeing you because I was so transparent, with nothing to hide, with a mad courage to change everything, right there, on the spot, to turn the wheel of destiny that had trampled me mercilessly.

Because in the thick blackness angels are more visible to those who search for them, blindly, for nights on end, hoping that, transparency upon transparency, they will regain their shape, their life, their dreams.

Dance me ... till the end of love

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Au dansat o viata intr-o noapte, cand muzica curgea pe fundal, fara sa-i pese cuiva cine o canta, cand lumea se invartea in jur buimaca, iar lor nu le pasa ce isi spuneau intre ei.

A fost vals, sau tango, sau vreun dans lent, cu miscari suave, in care simturile se combinau haotic pentru a crea magia? A fost vis, sau realitate, au fost ei, sau altii?

Suntem liberi sa ne imaginam orice, cu farama aia de amintire ascunsa undeva adanc, sa ne imaginam ca am fost noi sau altii, ca dansul a fost un inceput sau un sfarsit, ca intr-o alta lume povestea a continuat de-acolo si a ajuns departe, in pagini de roman celebru.

Dansez pe sfarsitul povestii, cu un ochi plans si unul ascuns, cu un obraz rece si unul fierbinte, cu gandul macinat de intrebari si cu o duzina de raspunsuri pe care le ignor rotindu-ma continuu pe muzica aia dementa, hipnotizanta, pe care nici macar nu mi-o mai amintesc. Ma mangai cu gandul ca ai uitat, sau ca nici macar nu (ma) stiai. Pana la urma, ce mai conteaza, un dans in plus, cand viata ne roteste mereu cum vrea ea?

Ritmul? Ni l-am impus! Pasii? I-am inventat! Muzica? Nici nu conta, am dansat nebuni si in pauze!

O viata intr-un dans, un singur dans intr-o viata.

***

They danced for a lifetime in one night, when the music flowed in the background, no one cared who was playing it, when people were milling around buoyantly, and they didn't care what they said to each other.

Was it a waltz, or a tango, or some slow, smoothly moving dance where the senses combined chaotically to create magic? Was it dream, or reality, was it them, or others?

We are free to imagine anything, with that shred of memory hidden somewhere deep, to imagine that it was us or others, that the dance was a beginning or an end, that in another world the story continued from there and went far away, into the pages of a famous novel.

I dance on the end of the story, with one eye watering and one hiding, one cheek cold and one hot, with my mind consumed with questions and a dozen answers that I ignore by spinning continuously to that insane, hypnotic music that I don't even remember. You tease me with the thought that you've forgotten, or that you didn't even (know) me. After all, what does it matter, one more dance, when life always spins us around as it wills?

The rhythm? We imposed it on ourselves! The steps? I invented them! The music? It didn't even matter, we danced madly in the breaks!

A lifetime in a dance, one dance in a lifetime.

Te uita cum ninge decembre... / Just look how it snows in December...

A inceput luna aceea blestemata, in care te simt mai aproape decat in tot anul. A inceput luna in care aniversam trist Craciunul ratat, in care plangem mai mult decat in restul anului, in care se aduna regretele gramada si intrebarile curg in fiecare zi. Si tu nu mai esti aici sa mai raspunzi niciunei intrebari.

E cea mai fericita luna decembrie din viata mea, luna pe care mi-as fi dorit mai mult ca niciodata sa o traiesti

si tu. Si mi-as dori sa nu-mi mai fie dor si frica, si mi-as dori sa mai citesti din Minulescu si sa-ti urasc tigarile innodate din bucatarie. Si mi-as dori sa nu mai plang acum, dupa jumatate de viata fara tine.

Ce-ai spune tu acum? Ai plange cum plang si eu, de fericire si de grija, si m-ai alinta cum numai tu o

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faceai, si te-ai bucura fara sa-ti fie teama si rusine ca te va judeca cineva ca esti mai putin barbat ca plangi ca o femeie la fiecare emotie. Pentru ca asa esti tu, asa ai ramas in amintirile mele dragi, asa te-am cunoscut si te-am iubit, asa ai plecat, cu un zambet pe buze si cu ochii in lacrimi.

Cred ca sunt fericita, dar mi-e frica sa recunosc. Cred ca ai ceva de-a face cu asta, pentru ca de curand am inceput sa cred in ingeri. Cred ca te-ai zbatut sa ajung aici, cred ca ma vezi si mi-ai trimis ce am bun in viata, incercand sa estompezi si raul de care am avut parte.

Mi-as dori sa ne pregatim sa te serbam de Mos Nicolae, cu toate ca noi nu eram asa festivi. Mi-as dori sa fii ceva mai batran decat mi te aduc eu aminte, dar cu bagajul plin de glume si bancuri, la fel de emotiv si sincer, la fel de adevarat. Mi-as dori sa vin acasa sa te gasesc jumate sub masina, sau la cafeaua de dupa-amiaza, sau ascultand Edith Piaf sau contrand-o pe mama care zicea ca aia nu e artista, ci doar o femeie usoara.

Mi-e dor de tine si anul asta nu am nici energie si nici nu gasesc vreo motivatie suficient de puternica sa ma prefac ca nu a inceput decembrie.

***

That damned month has begun, where I feel closer to you than I have all year. The month has begun where we sadly celebrate the missed Christmas, where we cry more than the rest of the year, where regrets pile up and questions flow every day. And you're not here to answer any more questions.

It's the happiest December of my life, the month I wish more than ever you could have lived too. And I wish I didn't miss you and I wish I wasn't afraid, and I wish I could still read Minulescu and hate your knotted cigarettes in the kitchen. And I wish I wouldn't cry now, after half my life without you.

What would you say now? You'd weep as I weep, with happiness and care, and praise me as only you would and you would rejoice without fear and shame that someone would judge you less of a man for crying like a woman at every emotion. Because that's who you are, that's how you stayed in my fond memories, that's how I knew and loved you, that's how you left, with a smile on your lips and eyes in tears.

I think I'm happy, but I'm afraid to admit it. I think you have something to do with it, because I've recently started believing in angels. I think you struggled to get here, I think you see me and sent me the best I have in life, trying to blur out the bad I've had.

I wish we were getting ready to celebrate you for Saint Nicholas, though you weren't so festive. I wish you were a little older than I remember you, but with baggage full of jokes and pranks, just as emotional and sincere, just as true. I wish I could come home to find you half under the car, or at afternoon coffee, or listening to Edith Piaf, or contending with my mother who said she wasn't an artist, just a little bimbo.

I miss you and this year I have neither the energy nor can I find any motivation strong enough to pretend December hasn't started.

Despre ingeri / About angels

Cand rasare soarele, primul lucru pe care suntem tentati sa il facem este sa tragem draperiile, sa deschidem geamul larg, sa lasam lumina sa intre si sa uitam de negura noptii, de frig, de intuneric si necunoscut. Cand rasare soarele, pentru un moment nimic nu mai conteaza decat noua zi, cu toate provocarile, bucuriile si lumina ei, care ne imbata si ne face sa uitam.

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Pe la amiaza, pleoapele se ingreuneaza placut, intram intr-o stare de usora somnolenta, facem o cafea tare si, privind in adancul cestii, ne revin in minte imagini ale noptii trecute, cu orele in care am privit neajutorati tavanul, cu clipele in care am crezut ca cea mai buna alternativa e ca noaptea sa devina eterna, cu ingerii negri care ne-au bantuit visele si cu cei pazitori, putini, dar prezenti, care ne-au tinut de mana si ne-au ghidat catre lumina unei alte dimineti.

Ingerii umbla liberi printre noi. Ii recunoastem in zorii zilei, ii ignoram o vreme, apoi, privind in luciul cafelei aburinde de dupa-amiaza, ii identificam exact, asa cum sunt, cu tot ce au facut, ne amintim caldura mainii care, fara a cere nimic in schimb, ne-a departat de marginea prapastiei. Si ne gandim sa le fim si noi ingeri pazitori intr-o zi, pe care insa nu ne-o dorim apropiata.

Multumesc ingerilor mei, ii port in suflet, ii pomenesc in rugaciuni, ii tin pe piedestalul de pe care nimeni si nimic nu ii va da jos vreodata!

***

When the sun rises, the first thing we are tempted to do is to pull back the curtains, open the window wide, let the light in and forget about the darkness of the night, the cold, the dark and the unknown. When the sun rises, for a moment nothing matters but the new day, with all its challenges, its joys and its light, which makes us drunk and forgetful.

By midday, our eyelids are pleasantly heavy, we enter a state of mild drowsiness, we make a strong coffee and, looking deep into our cups, images of the night before come to mind, of the hours when we looked helplessly at the ceiling, of the moments when we thought the best alternative was for the night to go on forever, of the dark angels who haunted our dreams and the few but present guardians who held our hands and guided us to the light of another morning.

Angels walk freely among us. We recognize them at dawn, ignore them for a while, then, gazing into the glow of steaming afternoon coffee, identify them exactly as they are, with all they have done, remember the warmth of the hand that, without asking anything in return, has steered us away from the brink. And we think of being their guardian angels one day, which we don't want to be any time soon.

I thank my angels, I carry them in my heart, I remember them in my prayers, I keep them on a pedestal from which nothing and no one will ever take them away!

Am iubit un maidanez / I have loved a stray dog

Asta nu e poezie, nici proza, nici metafora, e confesiune, e justificare, e felie de viata pe paine. Cei inteligenti, vor intelege, de restul, nici ca imi pasa...

Dragostea si respectul fata de animale le-am avut in sange, mostenire genetica de la tata, nu prea am avut de comentat in legatura cu asta. Copil fiind, am invatat cum sa ma comport cu animalele, astfel incat nu am ezitat niciodata sa mangai toti cainii de pe strada, chiar cu protestele mamei.

Mama iubea animalele, dar nu in casa, asa ca nu am avut voie sa crestem decat hamsteri, pe care i-am iubit generatii de-a randul, de la albi, crem, gri, mari, mici... Din cand in cand mai ingrijeam cateva zile cate un puisor de guguta cazut din cuib, plangeam o vrabie calcata de masina, mangaiam pitigoii care intrau in casa, ca a doua zi, dupa ce ii eliberam, sa se intoarca...

Asta pana in dimineata aia, cand a sunat mama la o ora imposibila, de la munca, sa ii spuna lui tata sa vina repede, ca la ei in curte este un catel frumos. A fost scanteia care ne-a adus-o in viata.

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Aveam vreo 13 ani. Telefonul m-a trezit, asa ca am asteptat cu sufletul la gura sa se intoarca tata. Imi amintesc si acum cand au intrat pe usa, el grijuliu, ea, eleganta, increzatoare, cuminte, cel mai frumos caine urat pe care l-am vazut vreodata! O boxerita de vreo 4-5 ani, roscata, cu botul negru si nasul cret. Abandonata de ceva timp sau neglijata, dupa cum se vedea dupa numarul coastelor la vedere, batuta cu piciorul, pentru ca avea rani si vreo 2 coaste rupte, purta la gat o lesa improvizata de tata dintr-o fasa medicala.

M-am napustit asupra ei cu o inocenta si o dragoste de care numai un copil este in stare, facandu-l pe tata sa paleasca pregatindu-se sa ma scoata din coltii animalului strain. Dar ea a acceptat imbratisarea ca si cum ar fi asteptat-o de mult.

Timp de o saptamana mama ne-a amenintat in fiecare zi ca "Maine o ducem la curte, la bunici", insa Lassie a ramas cu noi, membru al familiei, cel mai inteligent, docil, recunoscator, cuminte si educat caine din cati credeam ca exista. 2 ani si jumatate ne-a luminat fiecare zi si ne-a facut sosirile acasa o sarbatoare, agitand ciotul ei de coada si gudurandu-se de parca s-ar fi indoit ca ne va mai vedea vreodata. Ne-a creionat personalitatile, ne-a sadit in suflet ceva din bunatatea ochilor ei, ne-a ajutat sa ne gasim calea si sa ne descoperim principiile.

Lassie mi-a murit in brate, la 7 ani, varsta la care, de obicei, boxerii se duc. I-am vazut lumina disparandu-i din ochi, i-am simtit ultimul spasm si, daca sufletul ar fi fost material, l-as fi prins si l-as fi mai tinut cu noi o vreme, dar n-am putut. Am plans-o si o plang si acum, o simt in ochii fiecarui maidanez pe care nu ezit nici acum sa il mangai pe strada si pe care nu ezit sa-l compatimesc.

Pentru ca fiecare familie are nevoie de o Lassie care sa-i deschida ochii!

***

This is not poetry, nor prose, nor metaphor, it is confession, it is justification, it is slice of life on bread. The intelligent ones will understand, the rest, I don't care...

Love and respect for animals was in my blood, genetic inheritance from my father, I didn't have much to say about it. As a child, I learned how to behave with animals, so I never hesitated to pet all the dogs on the street, even with my mother's protests.

My mother loved animals, but not in the house, so we were only allowed to raise hamsters, which we loved for generations, from white, cream, grey, big, small... From time to time we would take care of a little dove that had fallen out of the nest for a few days, we would cry over a sparrow that had been run over by a car, we would stroke the bluebirds that came into the house, so that the next day, after we had freed them, they would come back...

That was until that morning, when my mother called at an impossible hour, from work, to tell my father to come quickly, because there was a beautiful puppy in their yard. It was the spark that brought her into our lives.

I was about 13 years old. The phone woke me up, so I waited with bated breath for my dad to come back. I remember even now when they walked in the door, he thoughtful, she, elegant, confident, well-behaved, the most beautiful ugly dog I've ever seen! A little boxer about 4-5 years old, red hair, black muzzle and curly nose. Abandoned for some time or neglected, as you could see by the number of ribs in sight, kicked, because she had wounds and a couple of broken ribs, she wore a leash improvised by her father from a medical bandage around her neck.

I swooped down on her with an innocence and love that only a child is capable of, making my father pale as he prepared to pull me from the fangs of the foreign animal. But she accepted the embrace as if she had been waiting for it for a long time.

For a week my mother threatened us every day that "Tomorrow we're taking her to the yard, to Grandma and Grandpa", but Lassie stayed with us, a member of the family, the smartest, most docile, grateful, well-behaved and well-mannered dog we thought existed. Two and a half years she brightened our every day and made our arrivals home a celebration, wagging her tail stub and gurgling as if she doubted she would ever see us again. She shaped our personalities, she soaked into our souls some of the kindness of her eyes, she helped us find our way and discover our principles.

Lassie died in my arms, at 7, the age at which boxers usually go. I saw the light disappear from his eyes, felt his last spasm, and if his soul were material, I would have caught it and kept him with us a while longer, but I couldn't. I cried it and I cry it now, I feel it in the eyes of every stray I still don't hesitate to pet in the street and I don't hesitate to pity.

Because every family needs a Lassie to open their eyes!

Arid / Dry

Cand nu mai pot nici sa plang, lacrimile se transforma in versuri, cuvinte si note muzicale, razbesc pentru cateva secunde doar in lumea de afara, se incarca de sens si apoi se intorc spasite acasa. Atunci ma gandesc la tine, incerc iar, in zadar, sa dau pagina, cu mana usor tremuranda, si in loc sa inchid cartea, mai scriu un paragraf.

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Nu mai ploua pe strada mea. Norii stau gata sa se rupa, in fiecare zi, furtuna se dezlantuie numai la mine in suflet, cateodata devenind uragan si maturand totul in cale, ca sa se astearna apoi linistea. Totul e prafuit in jur, timpul ne-a facut pe toti pudra fina si ne-a imprastiat aiurea, farame din tine cu farame din mine, zacand fara sens pe trotuar, pe geam, pe frunze. Si fiecare pala de vant ne amesteca si ne desparte, si tanjesc dupa ploaie, sa ne spele, sa ne adune, sa ne ascunda, sa ne inece.

A trecut anul si nici nu mai stiu daca mai doare. Iti zambesc larg, fara subintelesuri, mai sincera decat am fost vreodata. Ma hranesc zilnic cu lumina din privirea ta, pasind cate o secunda in intunericul dulce-amarui al sufletului drag, fara sa incerc macar sa deslusesc povestile innodate acolo.

Timpul ma intareste, imi privesc carcasa calcifiata si simt constant cum se extinde, cuprinzand treptat fiecare coltisor de fiinta. Sunt clipe cand nu mai simt nimic, in afara de tine, stropul de viata din sufletul meu. Si as vrea sa stii cum imi salvezi viata zilnic, dar mi-as dori sa nu ti-o spun niciodata.

***

When I can't even cry anymore, the tears turn into verses, words and musical notes, they linger for a few seconds only in the outside world, they charge with meaning and then they return home spastic. Then I think of you, try again, in vain, to turn the page, with a slightly trembling hand, and instead of closing the book, I write another paragraph.

It's not raining on my street anymore. The clouds stand ready to break, every day, the storm rages only at my soul, sometimes becoming a hurricane and ripening everything in its path, to then stand still. Everything around is dusty, time has made us all fine dust and scattered us haphazardly, shards of you with shards of me, lying senseless on the sidewalk, on the window, on the leaves. And every wind blade mixes us and separates us, and yearns for rain, to wash us, to gather us, to hide us, to drown us.

It's been a year and I don't even know if it hurts anymore. I smile wide, without undertones, more sincere than I've ever been. I feed daily on the light in your gaze, stepping for a second into the bittersweet darkness of your dear soul, without even trying to unravel the stories knotted there.

Time hardens me, I look at my calcified carcass and constantly feel how it expands, gradually encompassing every corner of being. There are moments when I feel nothing but you, the splash of life in my soul. And I wish you knew how you save my life every day, but I wish I never told you.