Run

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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. 

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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.

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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.