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.