Unlovable

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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.

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.

Sursa foto

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.

Sursa foto

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!

Usa / The door

In miezul noptii, bataile in usa se auzeau clar si nu puteau confundate cu nimic altceva decat cu un strigat dupa ajutor. Se uita speriata la ceas apoi, cu ochii inca pe jumatate inchisi, deranjati de lumina palida a veiozei, se indrepta spre usa. O intredeschise usor, cu teama, purtand in brate mormane de intrebari. Strainul din prag o privea gol, cu o jumatate de zambet si jumatate de suspin, in celasi timp, impletindu-i-se pe chip. Desi anonimi, ochii lui adusera povestea.

***

Sursa foto

Locuia atunci intr-un apartament modest, intr-un bloc cu multe etaje, cu paliere lungi, unde se invecinau multe usi. Usile erau diferite, unele atent ingrijite si vopsite, noi, lucioase, altele vechi, cu vopseaua scorojita, emanad miros de experienta acumulata involuntar, de timpi trecuti in graba. In fiecare seara si dimineata privea usile, incercand sa contureze un tablou complet: unele erau usor deschise, lasand sa patrunda inauntru o farama de privire, altele erau chiar semideschise, astfel incat iti puteai face o parere destul de clara despre locatar. Mai erau si usile care pareau a fi ferecate pe vecie, pe unde soarele parea ca nu a razbatut vreodata. Se intreba daca locuieste cineva acolo, si daca da, ce fel de specie ciudata de vecini or fi, atat de ingropati in secrete.

Un calcul simplu ii confirma in fiecare zi ca suma usilor neferecate era net superioara celor acoperite de mister, astfel incat se simtea cumva in siguranta stiind ca atunci, in noaptea cand va avea nevoie de o singura usa deschisa doar, o va gasi cu siguranta.

Nu isi mai amintea de ce sunase in seara aceea la usa inchisa. Era o usa noua, lacuita, inalta, ingrijita si curata. Cineva iesea mereu de-acolo, il vazuse de cateva ori in fuga, insa usa se inchidea de fiecare data la loc, fara zgomot, cu o discretie desavarsita. A batut timid si nici nu a asteptat macar un raspuns, indreptandu-se tacut spre casa. Insa raspunsul a venit, curand linistea culoarului lung a fost tulburata de zgomotul cheii invartindu-se in broasca noua, si usa s-a crapat discret.

Au urmat zile de discutii lungi, mereu in prag, usile lor, vecine, se deschideau in fiecare zi la acelasi apel scurt, si ramaneau asa ore intregi. Deja vecinii de pe palier se obisnuisera sa ii gaseasca acolo, impartind hohote si experiente, vise si nelamuriri. Si, fara sa isi dea seama, usa ei s-a izbit intr-o zi de perete, balamalele s-au fortat putin, si toate colturile cu secrete s-au lasat cuprinse de lumina: cana aburinda de cafea, paharul de vin rosu din seara precedenta, niste sticle de vodca goale, sparte, intr-un colt, cateva cioburi de vase vechi, un patut gol, o papusa ciufulita, aruncata pe o polita.

Nu isi mai amintea acum cati au trecut pe coridor atunci sa vada grozavia. Usa ei, desi mereu intredeschisa, nu lasase totusi atatea priviri inauntru.

Apoi intr-o noapte ea a crezut ca a avut un vis ciudat. Se facea ca un scelerat pasionat de semantica reusise cumva sa schimbe sensurile cunoscute ale cuvintelor, doar pentru ca nu ii placeau prefixele. Astfel, oamenii erau acum fortati ca accepte ca incorect era corect, indispensabil era dispensabil, incredibil era credibil, incompetent era competent si multe, multe alte exemple naucitoare. S-a trezit zguduita, si, inca inainte de a realiza daca a fost vis sau nu, a fugit pentru a-si povesti intr-un suflet istorioara fantastica. A ascultat-o cu ochi mari, cu o mana controland parca deschiderea usii.

Apoi ceva s-a rupt. Zilele urmatoare si-a dat treptat seama ca visul nu fusese vis. Apoi a auzit in spatele usii lui niste glasuri, franturi de conversatie, insa nimic care sa se lege. Au mai vorbit de cateva ori, mereu intrerupti de un telefon sunand. Intr-o seara a trecut grabita spre casa, i-a vazut usa intredeschisa, a aruncat o privire scurta si a  vazut o scrisoare rupta aruncata pe o masa, insa s-a retras rapid: usa nu era deschisa pentru ea.

In mod cert, usa lui nu s-a mai dat niciodata de perete, cu toate promisiunile si amanarile, cu toate asigurarile si rugamintile. In cateva nopti, ea a adormit pe pragul lui, ca nu cumva sa rateze vreun semn de viata. Insa in timpul somnului usa s-a deschis si inchis de cateva ori, intr-o liniste desavarsita.

In timp usile s-au inchis pe rand, apoi s-au auzit si lanturile asigurand discretia.

***
- Si, spui ca am fost prieteni? il intreba retoric, privindu-l prin zalele lantului care impiedica deschiderea usii.


_____________



At the stroke of midnight, the pounding at the door rang out clearly—unmistakable, nothing less than a cry for help. She glanced at the clock in fright, then, her eyes still half-closed and irritated by the pale light of the bedside lamp, made her way toward the door. She opened it slightly, cautiously, carrying in her arms heaps of questions.

The stranger on the threshold looked at her with an emptiness that held both half a smile and half a sigh, woven together across his face. Though they were strangers, his eyes brought the story with them.

She was living then in a modest apartment, in a tall building with long corridors where many doors stood side by side. The doors were different—some carefully tended and freshly painted, new and gleaming; others old, their paint peeling, exhaling the scent of involuntary experience, of hurried years gone by.

Every evening and morning she would look at the doors, trying to sketch a complete picture. Some were slightly ajar, allowing a fragment of a glance to slip inside. Others stood half-open, enough for one to form a fairly clear impression of the tenant. And then there were the doors that seemed bolted forever, as though sunlight had never once forced its way through. She wondered whether anyone lived there at all—and if so, what strange species of neighbors they might be, so buried in secrets.

A simple calculation reassured her each day: the number of unbolted doors far exceeded those shrouded in mystery. And so she felt somehow safe, knowing that on the night she would need just one open door, she would surely find it.

She no longer remembered why she had knocked that evening on the closed door. It was a new door—lacquered, tall, well-kept and clean. Someone always came out of there; she had seen him a few times in passing. Yet the door closed each time without a sound, with perfect discretion.

She knocked timidly and did not even wait for an answer, turning quietly toward her own home. But the answer came. Soon the silence of the long corridor was disturbed by the sound of a key turning in the new lock, and the door opened just a crack.

Days of long conversations followed—always on the threshold. Their neighboring doors opened each day at the same brief signal and remained so for hours. The neighbors grew used to finding them there, sharing bursts of laughter and experiences, dreams and uncertainties.

And then, without her noticing, one day her door slammed against the wall. The hinges strained slightly, and every corner holding secrets surrendered to the light: a steaming mug of coffee, a glass of red wine from the previous evening, a few empty vodka bottles—broken—in a corner, shards of old dishes, an empty crib, a disheveled doll tossed onto a shelf.

She could no longer remember how many passed along the corridor to witness the horror. Her door, though always slightly open, had never allowed so many glances inside.

Then one night she believed she had had a strange dream. It seemed that a scoundrel obsessed with semantics had somehow managed to alter the known meanings of words simply because he disliked prefixes. Thus people were now forced to accept that incorrect was correct, indispensable was dispensable, incredible was credible, incompetent was competent—and countless other dizzying inversions.

She awoke shaken and, before she could even decide whether it had been a dream or not, ran to tell her fantastic tale in a single breath. He listened with wide eyes, one hand as though controlling the opening of the door.

Then something broke.

In the days that followed she gradually realized the dream had not been a dream at all. She began hearing voices behind his door—fragments of conversation, nothing that quite connected. They spoke a few more times, always interrupted by a ringing phone. One evening she hurried home, saw his door slightly ajar, cast a quick glance and noticed a torn letter lying on a table—but she withdrew at once: the door was not open for her.

His door never again swung wide against the wall, despite promises and postponements, assurances and pleas. On several nights she fell asleep on his threshold, afraid of missing some sign of life. Yet while she slept, the door opened and closed a few times in perfect silence.

In time, the doors closed one by one. Then the sound of chains securing discretion could be heard.

“So,” she asked him rhetorically, looking at him through the links of the chain that prevented the door from opening, “you say we were friends?”

Free hugs!!!

Sursa foto

Imbratisarea este un schimb intens de energii, de preferat pozitive, intre doua sau mai multe persoane, un fel de act sexual la care satisfactia deplina nu se exprima prin stare de somnolenta ulterioara, asta mai ales daca a fost facut cum trebuie.

Imbratisarile de grup vin de obicei la pachet cu sticle de licori magice, si de cele mai multe ori nu ajung la rezultatul scontat, drept pentru care se tot repeta, pana la finalizarea cu succes a sticlelor in cauza.

Ne amintim cele mai bizare imbratisari, nu neaparat cele mai importante, cum ar fi cele date de parinti, frati, iubiti, prieteni dragi. De exemplu, mie mi-a ramas in minte imbratisarea primita de la o colega de munca, imediat dupa moartea catelului meu. Plangeam ca un copil pe holul "intreprinderii" si ea a venit si mi-a transferat energia necesara pentru a merge mai departe, printr-o imbratisare. Nu am apucat sa ii multumesc niciodata.

Cred ca ne impartim in doua categorii: oameni care stiu si pot sa ofere imbratisari adevarate, la care totul vine natural, ca si cum ar fi nascuti pentru asta, si ceilalti, pentru care spatiul intim e mult prea important, dar care profita, cand pot, de o imbratisare adevarata. Mereu am facut parte din a doua categorie...

Ieri un grup colorat de activisti, cine stie in ce domeniu, imparteau cu generozitate imbratisari gratis, undeva pe Haupstrasse. Aveau o pancarta mare pe care scria cu litere mari, rosii "Free Hugs". Trecatorii se fereau mai mult sau mai putin politicos. In fata mea, o turista entuziasmata a muscat momeala si s-a aruncat intr-o imbratisare cu straina "activista", care a ramas de piatra, facandu-ma martora la o imbratisare ratata din toate punctele de vedere.

M-a cuprins o tristete bizara si m-am ferit si eu din calea spectacolului, am imbratisari platite in avans, OP-ul il pastrez in suflet si pe chip, insa nu contenesc sa investesc mereu si mereu.

***

A hug is an intense exchange of energies, preferably positive, between two or more people, a kind of sexual act in which full satisfaction is not expressed by subsequent sleepiness, especially if it has been done properly.

Group hugs usually come with bottles of magic liquor, and most of the time they do not achieve the desired result, which is why they are repeated until the bottles are successfully completed.

We remember the most bizarre hugs, not necessarily the most important ones, such as those given by parents, siblings, lovers, dear friends. For example, I remember of the hug I received from a co-worker right after the death of my puppy. I was crying like a baby in the hallway of the "enterprise" and she came and transferred to me the necessary energy to go on, with a hug. I never got to thank her.

I think we fall into two categories: people who know and can give real hugs, to whom everything comes naturally, as if they were born for it, and others, for whom the intimate space is far too important, but who take advantage, when they can, of a real hug. I've always belonged to the second category...

Yesterday a colourful group of activists, who knows in what field, were generously sharing free hugs somewhere on Haupstrasse. They had a big sign on which was written in big red letters "Free Hugs". Passers-by more or less politely shied away. In front of me, an excited tourist took the bait and jumped into a hug with the "activist" stranger, who remained stoned, making me witness a hug that was a failure in every detail.

A bizarre sadness came over me and I dodged out of the way of the show, I have prepaid hugs, the proof of payment I keep in my heart and on my face, but I keep investing over and over again.

Text din obligatie / A text because I have to

Mi-am luat un angajament fata de mine, in primul rand (incerc sa ma catar iar pe prima pozitie in clasamentul prioritatilor mele, e cam greu, dupa tot praful care s-a asternut in anii astia) sa scriu cate ceva in fiecare zi. Terapie, sa-i zicem, sau nevoie primordiana de a ma simti, intr-un fel, utila.

Azi n-am ce scrie, iar versurile pe care am zis ca o sa le citez sunt mult prea transparente pentru ce as avea de zis, asadar o sa imi rod gandurile in liniste si o sa astept sa se potoleasca si sa-mi dea pace, sau, daca nu, macar sa se aseze regulamentar intr-o ordine mai transparenta, pe care sa o pot analiza si transpune in practica.

Lumea se invarte fara mine. Ei, nu ca nu stiam, dar era placut sentimentul ala ca as fi, macar pentru unii, centrul universului. Ei bine, nu-s, si, in caz ca isi mai face cineva iluzii de acest gen, trag un semnal de trezire: niciunul nu suntem centrul niciunui univers! Si nici cei pe care ii alegem ca centru al universului nostru nu sunt deloc asa, fie ca nu-si doresc, fie ca dispar, fie ca se schimba. Ori, un centru ar trebui sa fie unic si stabil.

A dat soarele, probabil ca natura incepe usor sa isi iasa din amorteala. A trebuit sa se faca dupa-amiaza sa-l observ. O sa ma rup de tot ceea ce nu ma tine captiva si sa ma fortez sa admir privelistea, sa traiesc momentul, sa tac si sa uit.

Revin maine, cu aceleasi ineptii, scrise intr-o alta forma, mai mult sau mai putin patetica.

***

I made a commitment to myself, first of all (I'm trying to climb back to the top of my priority list, it's a bit hard, after all the dust that has settled over the years) to write something every day. Therapy, let's call it, or a primal need to feel somehow useful.

Today I have nothing to write, and the lines I said I'd quote are far too transparent for what I'd have to say, so I'll gnaw on my thoughts in silence and wait for them to subside and give me peace, or, if not, at least to settle into a more transparent order that I can analyze and put into practice.

The world is spinning without me. Well, not that I didn't know it, but it was nice that feeling that I was, at least for some, the center of the universe. Well, I'm not, and in case anyone else is under such illusions, I'm sounding a wake-up call: none of us are the centre of any universe! Nor are those we choose as the centre of our universe at all, either unwilling, disappearing or changing. Or, a centre should be unique and stable.

The sun rises, nature is probably slowly starting to break out of its numbness. I had to make it afternoon to notice it. I'm going to break away from everything that doesn't hold me captive and force myself to admire the view, live in the moment, shut up and forget.

I'll be back tomorrow, with the same nonsense, written in a different, more or less pathetic form.

Si baietii plang cateodata / Boys do cry sometimes too

Mult inainte de a ajunge la varsta cugetarilor intelepte, mi-a fost dat sa intalnesc o intreaga tipologie de barbati, si asta datorita firii analitice care mi-a fost harazita. Gandirea societatii in care traim este dominata de mitul barbatului dur, cu maxilarele patrate, cu par pe piept si cu privirea necrutatoare, de care valurile vietii se sparg ca de malurile stancoase de la marginea marii. Pe langa aceste exemplare, pe care, personal, nu le consider superioare, ci mai mult la limita primitivismului, mai sunt, inca, si barbati adevarati, oameni cu calitati si defecte, cu o cantitate de testosteron care nu depaseste limitele bunului simt. Sunt barbatii care pot sa planga cateodata, "cand nu-i vede nimenea"... Sunt barbatii pe care ii admir si ii respect, capabili sa iubeasca pana la moarte, sa sufere si sa indure mai multa umilinta si durere decat pachetele de muschi de care pomeneam mai devreme. Am cunoscut in viata mea mai multi asemenea barbati, incepand de la tata, care plangea la filme si-mi recita poezii de Minulescu, la fratele meu, care, desi se exteriorizeaza mai greu, e capabil de teribil de multa iubire, la barbatul de langa mine, sinteza a tot ce mi-as fi putut dori vreodata. Azi am mai intalnit unul. Ne cunoastem de luni intregi, dar n-am stiut povestea lui, n-am banuit durerea ascunsa de ochii veseli si glasul jovial. Iubine neimpartasita, sau imposibila, sau "nu inca"... pe scurt, doi oameni perfecti unul pentru altul, care nu sunt impreuna. Si, desi banala, povestea capata ceva inaltator spusa de un barbat adevarat, care recunoaste ca-l macina durerea. Poezie pura, in secolul 21... Citeam luna trecuta un articol despre moartea din iubire. Statistic vorbind, barbatii sunt cei care conduc detasat in topul macabru al suicidurilor din iubire. Autoarea, feminista convinsa, sustinea ca motivul care-i impinge intr-acolo nu este altul decat incapacitatea barbatului de a face fata durerii (cu trimitere directa la vaicarerile teribile de care sunt in stare cand se julesc la vreun deget). Adevarul e ca barbatii sunt capabili de sentimente cu mult mai profunde decat noi, femeile, putem sa intelegem vreodata. Se straduiesc sa ne arate asta cu cadouri exorbitante, versuri memorabile si, in cele mai nefericite cazuri, jertfindu-si viata pe altarul unei iubiri pe care n-o vom putea intelege niciodata. Noi femeile suntem mai egoiste, si asta mai ales dupa ce trecem de varsta de la care putem fi mame. Nu ne-am da viata asa, cu una, cu doua, pentru a demonstra ceva. Barbatii o fac, si mai presus de asta chiar, nu ar regreta-o niciodata. Admir barbatii adevarati! Admir barbatii care nu considera lacrimile un semn de slabiciune, ci o modalitate simpla si eficienta de a-si arata fata umana.

***

Long before I reached the age of wise thinking, I was given the opportunity to meet a whole typology of men, and this was due to the analytical nature that I was blessed with. The thinking of the society in which we live is dominated by the myth of the tough, square-jawed, hairy-chested, unrelenting-eyed man, against whom the waves of life crash like the rocky shores of the seashore. Besides these specimens, which I personally do not consider superior, but more on the edge of primitivism, there are still real men, men with qualities and flaws, with an amount of testosterone that does not exceed the limits of common sense. There are men who can cry sometimes, "when nobody sees them"... There are men I admire and respect, capable of loving to death, of suffering and enduring more humiliation and pain than the bundles of muscle I mentioned earlier. I have known many such men in my life, from my father, who cried at the movies and recited Minulescu poems to me, to my brother, who, though he is more difficult to express, is capable of terribly much love, to the man next to me, the synthesis of everything I could ever want. Today I met another one. We've known each other for months, but I didn't know his story, didn't suspect the pain hidden in his cheerful eyes and jovial voice. Unshared love, or impossible, or "not yet"... in short, two people perfect for each other who are not together. And, though trite, the story takes on something uplifting told by a real man who admits that he is consumed with grief. Pure poetry, in the 21st century... I was reading an article last month about dying in love. Statistically speaking, it's men who lead the macabre top of suicides for love. The author, a staunch feminist, argued that the reason that drives them there is none other than the man's inability to cope with the pain (with direct reference to the terrible laments they are capable of when they skin a finger). The truth is that men are capable of far deeper feelings than we women can ever understand. They strive to show us this with exorbitant gifts, memorable lyrics and, in the most unfortunate cases, by sacrificing their lives on the altar of a love we can never understand. We women are more selfish, and this is especially true after we pass the age of motherhood. We wouldn't give our lives away like that, with one, with two, to prove something. Men do, and even more than that, they would never regret it. I admire real men! I admire men who don't consider tears a sign of weakness, but a simple and effective way to show their human face.