"The color of this life is water"

In its deepness, warmth and happy moments. In its turmoil, and sadness, and scars, and irony. Water which we love and cherish, daring to walk on it in our faiths, our trust in our beloved ones. Water in which we sink and forget how to swim. Water which swallows us in a few seconds, in which we search for that thing to grasp. For a meaning. In its waves. The two sides of the coin from our lives, from my life, water as peace and water as death, water as stability and water with its insanity, silence and noise.

“Envy's color is the color of her pleasuring, and what is the color of grief? Is it black as they say? And anger always red? The color of that sad shade of ennui called blue is blue but blue unlike the sky or sea, a bitter blue, rue-tinged, discolored at the edges. The color of a blind man's noon is white, and is his nighttime too? And does he feel it with his skin like a fish? Does he have blues, are they bridal and serene, or yellows, sunlike or urinous, does he remember? Neural colors like the fleeting tones of dreams. The color of this life is water.”

(Cormac McCarthy - Suttree)

Die Worte/Words

When I say Deutschland I first think of autumn and language. Autumn because of its colours, not only in the street, but also among persons and peoples, a mixture of races, cultures, and personal searches, here, in a foreign country. A mixture of peoples, so different in their customs, voices, ways of thinking.

Language is the most intriguing, confusing, difficult aspect for me. In a war among three languages inside my head and heart – Romanian, English and German, you start feeling yourself in a maze of words, in the search for understanding, for meaning, and for Home. Words and accents get mixed inside yourself, and the more you stay among the Others (while you are the other), the more a new language invents itself inside yourself. It makes you think of what you study, of those artists who had to struggle and to live with/among/inside a new language, forging their new identities.

But language comes for me with its own anxiety, deepening the wars inside myself, with the miss of Home, of small routines, in a conflict with why you are here, with your inner searches of peace, tearing you again in two … I am used to feeling language, to play with it, to understand it … and the break in the wall comes for me from it, from the lack of understanding. I try to grasp a meaning, to find some ground beneath my feet, but there is only air, and sounds, and vivid memories of a world that was … and words go too deep, unable to grasp them anymore, but they still haunt ... as the feelings, the searches, the agenbite of inwit which are so buried, so present, inside yourself.