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October 30, 2016

Shape of my heart

I am sitting on the verge of an abyss, reading Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra. I try to look around, see a shape, a colour, a being. But it is just us, with a book between. The other half sits this time next to me, smoking a cigarette. We don’t speak. We just listen. The sound of silence, the sound of people, the sound of life and death.

I think that if one reads this book with the eyes of the present it does not say a damn thing. It is old, too pathetic, full of misogyny – and we don’t like this, do we? But you see, going beyond that, looking at it with the eyes of the past, it does say the things that we carry inside ourselves, the things that we learnt, the things that greatest writers try to teach the human kind … things that most of us maybe we don’t hear, or see, or understand.

I close my eyes and I try to breathe. I can’t. I only feel her chilling breath beside me, and the smell of smoke and dust raising in the air. It is my world here, but it is she who is more alive than me … so the abyss becomes my sea, and I feel the cold water beneath my feet. I don’t want to open my eyes. I don’t want to fall. I don’t want to listen to her, although ...

We all knew this before, what Nietzsche said … I knew it, somehow I believed that all human beings carry inside themselves this a priori knowledge … but do they?

We know that we should not think only of ourselves. And still, so many are so blind by their selfishness. It is that “I”, that “ego” that is the most important. The one who destroys families, countries, people … the "I" who shapes wars. The "I" of greed. The world would be indeed a better place if we could all give (and forgive) more … but human beings simply can’t go beyond the “I”.

We know that we should not have children only for the sake of species, for our fear of death, for the way the world is and judges. And still, too many of us have children for these reasons.  

We know that we should offer kindness, generosity, the better half of us to the humanity. But let’s face it, how many of us do this? And if we do, what does humanity offer in exchange?

And we keep saying that “I want to be a better half of me” … what does this mean? Do we really become better halves or do we just become the image of the world, of other billions of humans before us? We are born, we get married, we have children, and the circle goes round and round. We believe that we are different, but we are not. From our parents who sometimes we hate, from our ancestors that we didn’t know, from all the people that we keep on criticizing, unable to see us in them. We are all just dust, just nothingness, with illusions, fragile bodies and minds, the image of the first man and the last one closed in our breathing. I am the first and the last Eve (and Adam), as we all are.

Those who do, those who give themselves to the world, those who dream to make a difference, those who shut up, those who forgive, those who know how to listen, Ubermensch, to please Nietzsche (and Uberfrau, dear friend) … how much can they last in this world? And what is beneath their shells?  

The one who is behind me. The sea who is beneath my feet. Who will save you now? Rejecting life with its absurdity, that’s your whisper. “I’m fine”, although I am not. Disappointment. Fury. Storm. Pain, deep, like the sea beneath me. The other half, who smokes her cigarette, always there – the only one who has always been present – waiting. For the jump. For the volcano. For the control.


And I just wanted to be happy … 



October 29, 2016

The Sound of Silence



Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
‘Neath the halo of a streetlamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
No one dare
Disturb the sound of silence

“Fools” said I, “You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you”
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said “The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence”

October 23, 2016

Nuanțe de cenușiu

Îmi vine să decupez cerul acesta cenușiu și să fac soarele să renască. Să îl așez într-un colț de cer – nu prea mare, nu prea puternic, dar călduț, prietenos, asemănător frunzelor de toamnă de care nu am avut timp să mă bucur. Îmi vine să alung ploaia asta rece, monotonă, care nu spune nimic, și să o înlocuiesc cu ploi călduțe, scurte, de octombrie. Nu îmi amintesc de un alt octombrie mai cenușiu, mai rece, mai gol, mai iernatic.

Detest toamna aceasta. Plină de ploi și de frig, plină de mii și mii de nuanțe de cenușiu, care nu zic nimic. O toamnă goală, rece, lipsită de speranță și de tot ce-mi amintește de umanitate. Detest lipsa ei de culoare, detest frigul care s-a instalat mult prea repede, detest cât de mult o compar cu o toamnă trecută, colorată și plină de viață. Și detest cât de dor îmi este de ultima.

Mi-e dor de culoare și joc. Aș vrea să cred, să sper, că pot/putem aduce acel octombrie mai prietenos, că pot decupa simbolic cerul, că pot face soarele să reapară, că pot simți sau da mii și mii de nuanțe de culori – altele mai calde, altele mai reci, altele mai jucăușe, altele mai simple ... Că pot trece peste oboseala mea, peste oboseala timpului, peste tot haosul din mine. Că pot lua o cretă colorată și desena, ca Julio Cortazar, un șotron – mai colorat, mai puternic, mai plin de viață. În care cenușiul să nu existe.
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,,O lume de cretă colorată se învârtea în preajma lor și-i amesteca în dansul ei, cartofi prăjiți făcuți cu cretă galbenă, vin cu cretă roșie, un cer pal și gingaș cu cretă albastră, cu puțin verde înspre fluviu.  O dată în plus aveau să arunce moneda în cutia de havane ca să oprească fuga catedralei, și chiar prin acest gest o vor condamna să fie ștearsă pentru a reînvia, să piară sub șuvoiul de apă pentru a se reîntoarce, linie după linie, cu cretă neagră și albastră și galbenă.(378)

Bird set free

„Every time I find the meaning of life, they change it.” (Daniel Klein) You see, I’ve had a design, and I don’t know where I did wrong. ...