Freedom

History is the nightmare from which I am trying to awake. 

(James Joyce)

Freedom. I don’t believe that freedom is everlasting. It is a moment, an evanescent feeling, an urging desire. I wonder if we are ever totally free. We are bound to the work that we do, bound to our old and new families, bound to our society, and most of all, to our inner conflicts.

We are given moments of freedom in all this meaningless routine. We want to climb that damn mountain, but we forget to look around and inside us. We wait for special days for an escape, and we, as human beings, are unable to work outside this history – personal and social.

I wish I were a Dedalus today, fleeing away from everything. Daring to tell my friends how I really feel. Daring to fly from here, daring to quit everything that I have done so far, and start all over again. Daring to fucking breathe.

I am yearning for freedom now: from today, from here, from myself.

Burn, burn, burn ...

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...”

I think that this is the best quote that describes what I feel when I choose a person. However, the world seems to be full of dull, grey people, who only say common things and lose themselves in a meaningless routine. I wonder where the people are. I wonder if this town, or even this country, is enough for me, I wonder if I can ever find my place here, if there is a place for me that I can call Ithaca. I start wondering if I made the right decisions in the job that I have chosen, in the place(s) where I am working, and as a song used to say, there is too much life running through my veins for common things.

Dreams Deferred

Nu mai e loc nici de cuvinte.

În haosul de acum, în tot ce nu mai există, și ar fi putut fi, în rutina în care fiecare dintre noi cădem puțin câte puțin, în viața pe care ai țesut-o și cumva, cândva, undeva, s-a impus în fața ta.

Rămân doar cuvintele-fantomă, care se-ncăpățânează să rămână aici, care trec dincolo de epuizarea de acum, care te și se izbesc ... de ziduri mult prea vechi, de acel dor ascuns, de tot ce porți în tine și rămâne nerostit. 

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