I was a little girl alone in my little world who dreamed of a little home for me...
Someone told me long time ago the following words: Every human being can be replaced with another one. If you understand this, you shall be ok. My heart couldn’t agree with her, although my mind, my reason has been telling me that she’s right. Every human being that I love has his/her own corner in my heart, every human being that I love and hits me bombs his/her corner of my heart. If I met this person now and if I wanted to be sincere with her, I would tell her this: Every human being CANNOT be replaced with another one. And because of this philosophy, sometimes I am K.O.
If you listen to me, if you want to make love rhyme with everyday, things shall not be ok. It shall hurt so much that sometimes you would want to die; you would cry, fall, and you shall not trust too easily other human beings. In fact, it is possible that you shall never trust anyone. A part from you, from your heart, shall die. You will feel bitterness, angriness, fire. But if you find the right persons, if these persons won’t hurt you and accept you as a whole, with your good parts and bad parts, you shall find happiness, power, will to live, meaning. So what do you say? The first road gives you safety, protection, hope. My road can lead to heaven or hell, it is not safe, it is based on the trust that you must invest in the outside world, it can fill you with energy or it can destroy you, wanting to hug loneliness forever.
Long walks in the dark through woods grown behind the park, I asked God who I'm supposed to be. ..
To talk about me, I’ve met two different persons to which I offered two corners of my heart. The first one has always taught me the value of ambition, of life, of independency. After five years, I feel safe in this friendship. I’m moving on in my road, in my writing, in my studies because of her trust in me. She taught me to want more, to never give up, to accept challenges, and she is in charge with my Inhuman part from me – the one that never shuts up, the one that is too scared to speak, the one that wants to make a difference.
Human is a child, warmth, fragile, sometimes violent, hidden deep in my being. I gave this other part of me to another person. James Joyce told somewhere: “I gave others my pride and joy. To you I give my sin, my folly, my weakness and sadness.” This second person taught me to value more the human part in any persons, taught my Human-part to speak, to express itself, to feel. From happiness to bitterness.
I have no idea what I can offer to these two persons, to express to them the value that friendship has in my life, to make them feel how much I need them. Every day.
Now I'm old and feeling grey...
Today I met with the past. And it was safe, loving, nice. Too short. Today, although things cracked yesterday inside of me, I was feeling energy in a corner of my heart. It made me see more, accept more, want more. I am not ok. Actually, I guess I’m a little K.O. I miss happiness, I miss Me trusting Me, I missed hugs, I miss action.
So dear God, or you/she/he/anyone, anything, if you think I deserve it, give me a ray of happiness in my life.
Ma gandesc la ziua de azi, la mine, la Dumnezeu, la idei de care-mi este teama, ma gandesc la mare, la examene, la toti oamenii pe care i-am alungat de langa mine lunile astea, la catelul de jos, la Eu. Pe tarmul marii mele, simtindu-ti respiratia in ceafa, privesc.
A fost o zi ciudata, o zi in care dupa muult mult timp, am zambit. Am zambit dimineata, trezita dupa o noapte cumplita, de un SMS din trecut, amintindu-mi ce e azi. Si e placut sa vezi ca oamenii de demult inca nu te-au uitat, ca tu insati ai uitat complet si nu-ti pasa de Azi, dar ei inca suna, zambind.
Adevarul gol-golut e ca mereu m-au enervat aniversarile onomastice, in care un eu poarta un nume cu un alt eu, cu un altul, si cu un altul, si intr-o zi din an, numele noastre il sarbatorsc pe sfantul cutare. Ion, Ionel, Ionut, (I)oana. De ce? Ma identific in toate numele pe care le am, nu le-as schimba, nu sunt de acord cu schimbarea numelui la casatorie, fiindca e si acesta o particica (mai buna sau mai rea) din mine, care m-a format. Dar nu ma pot identifica cu numele unui sfant. Ce sarbatoresc, ce simt? Nimic sacru, nimic special. Doar vesnicele telefoane, cu urarile deja de mult uzate, cu sanatatea, banii si fericirea care de mult ma dau afara din casa. Cadourile pe care le primesti, zambind, dar nesimtind nimic, pe care memoria sentimentelor nu le simte. Stii ce-mi voi aminti? O urare de demult si-un soare micut pe-un colt de pagina, un soare de care mi-e atat de dor incat mi-e teama (prea teama) sa-l simt …
Ma mai gandesc la Boboteaza, la toate datinile, la sarbatorile care slava Domnului ca au trecut! Sunt atatea traditii pe care eu una nu le pot intelege. Ar fi apa sfintita, in care nu mai avem voie sa ne spalam pentru un anumit nr de zile, la aghiazma pe care trebuie sa o bem in fiecare dimineata, pe stomacul gol, la preotii pe care-i primim in casa, pentru a pupa sfanta cruce. Si in timp ce o pupam, ma gandesc la cati oameni au trecut inaintea mea, cate salive s-au asezat pe ea, si mai presus de toate astea, cati oare am simtit o epifanie, un fior, ceva, orice, atunci cand am primit preotul in casa? Nu mai spun de banii pe care bunul Dumnezeu ar avea nevoie, pe care ii lasam de fiecare data cand sfanta persoana intra in casa sau atunci cand ingenunchiem pentru a ne spune pacatele … DE CE?
Mereu am fost o rebela, dear God. Mereu am intrebat de ce. Mereu Te-am cautat. Nu ma inchin in fata icoanelor, a moastelor, a preotilor. Mi-e groaza de spovedanie si adevarul e ca pentru a oferi cuiva o adevarata spovedanie, fie el preot sau psiholog, in primul si-n primul rand trebuie sa-l simt ca prieten. Si aici, spovedania le-o rezerv prietenilor … Dar de mica am fost invatata sa-mi spun o rugaciune in fiecare noapte. Am renuntat la asta intr-o zi din Martie. Durerea ne apropie de Dumnezeu? Pe mine m-a indepartat. Pentru ca cu fiecare zi in care mai muream putin, si El murea in mine. M-am razvratit si am tipat candva, demult. Si daca as fi putut, i-as fi tras si o palma. Sa iubesc? Mi-e imposibil sa ma iubesc pe mine, deci … Dar mereu, ma intorc la El, jucandu-ma cu “cred” si “nu cred”, penduland intre ateism, agnosticism, gnosticism si misticism. Mereu, pasionata de Istoria religilor, mereu in cautarea acelui ceva, pe care-L simt in mine.
“Dumnezeu este Iubire.” Cuvinte din Biblie care-mi rasuna mereu in minte, cand cineva ma intreaba in ce cred. In iubire. Si in tot ceea ce aceasta implica. Binele pe care-l simt, pe care-l vreau sa-l vad in fiecare om, pentru care ofer toata generozitatea si energia mea. Dreptul la fericire pentru toti oamenii (desi astazi, inca o data, cineva ne-a atras atentia cat de diferiti sunt unii oameni – artisti/scriitori – de ceilalti), dreptul de a fi iubit, iertat, dreptul la urma urmei, de a trai. In lumea de aici, si-n cea de dincolo.
Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.
From a Headstone in Ireland
Zile, ore, minute. Sunt zile care trec pe langa noi ca si cum n-ar fi existat, ca toate persoanele pe langa care trecem in fiecare zi, in magazine, pe strazi, fara sa le aruncam o privire. Sunt zile pline de greutati, negre, lungi. Ca cele mai intunecate amintiri, care ne lovesc doar gandindu-ne la ele. Sunt cateva zile pline de soare, de sacru, zile pe care le asteptam, care ne apartin, care ne incarca pentru toate zilele lipsite de sens, tacute, ucigatoare. Sunt zilele noastre, in care invatam sa zambim. Ca putinele persoane pe care le iubim.
Candva, demult, credeam in profan si sacru. Astazi m-am ascuns intr-o cochilie de melc si pe jumatate adormita de la oboseala, de la Cola, de la lupte care nu se mai sfarsesc, ma arunc in nisip, ascultand marea. M-am plimbat desculta pe aici, cautand o ora de ieri, o ora de maine, o litera scrijelita pe o amintire. Fara masti? Oboseala singuratate manie singuratate remuscare singuratate extenuare calm pentru ca sunt infranta. Ironic, rabdarea, speranta mea, au rezistat in fata tacerii, a cuvintelor pline de amintiri, in fata nepasarii, in fata propriilor sentimente, in fata necunoscutului, dar s-au prabusit la un detaliu insignifiant, la un lucru la care nu m-am gandit ... flux al amintirilor involuntare, prabusind un castel de nisip.
As vrea sa taca. Totul. Sa taca amintirile, furtunile de nisip, sa nu mai loveasca. As vrea atat de mult sa nu-i mai aud. Pentru ca azi e o zi ca oricare alta pentru ei. Iar eu nu mai pot ... Candva, imparteam lumea in sacru si profan. Oameni, locuri, zile. Candva credeam in magie. In magia ascunsa in fiecare zi, care erupe in zilele noastre speciale, care ne incarca cu energie, care ne sopteste ca nu suntem singuri. Yes, sure … Erau zile la care tineam, unde atarnam de pereti toate detaliile mele. Nu exista un “nu”, nu exista “hai sa sarim peste acest lucru insignifiant”. Erau zile in care aveam dreptul sa fiu egoista, in care speram tacut si mult prea adanc ca voi simti ca sunt iubita. Azi imi doresc un animalut micut, orice animalut, pentru a simti ceea ce nici un om nu a reusit sa-mi dea …
Urasc lucrurile virtuale. Le urasc atat de mult incat sunt zile cand vreau sa distrug Ithaca. Si locul acesta nu are nici un anisor, dar … Urasc sa ne ascundem in spatele ecranelor si sa spunem cat de mult insemnam pentru o alta persoana, sa spunem multumesc, sa ne cerem scuze, sa ranim, sa distrugem, sa ne aruncam in amintiri de care suntem constineti ca ne vor omori in cele din urma. Ce mai e viu oare in relatiile umane? Cum putem indrazni oare sa spunem “te iubesc” cand e atat de usor sa tastezi aceste cuvinte, cum putem oare indrazni sa spunem “la multi ani” pe un teren ca Facebook? Oricine m-ar cunoaste un picut, oricine ar fi atent la detalii, ar stii ca astazi nu vreau nimic virtual. Pentru ca astazi, doar astazi, as vrea sa fiu respectata pentru ceea ce sunt. Rea, rece, imbecila, mizantropica si tot ce mai vrei. Dar numai azi, as fi vrut o bucatica mica, mica din lucrurile care ma reprezinta. Si totusi, in calmul asta insuportabil, nu-mi mai pasa. De nimic.
Se spune “h.a.p.p.y new year!”, “h.a.p.p.y birthday” si atat de multi “h.a.p.p.y” pe care le uram … suntem cruzi. Atat de cruzi, incat … ne mai pasa? De orice altceva, in afara de fe-ri-ci-rea noastra? Ma uit la orele pe care le am in poala, la literele pe care le strang strans in pumni. A.H.P.H.Y. Nu stiu sa le asez, si-as vrea sa le arunc in mare. In marea mea, imensa, tacuta, calma. As vrea sa inchid ochii si totul sa dispara. As vrea sa fiu luata in brate si sa plang. Si inca le mai tin in mana - A.H.A.P.Y.P -, beata, urand tot ce e in jur, dar inca sperand ca poate intr-un viitor sau intr-o alta viata, am sa le gasesc si eu un inteles.
„Basmele nu le dezvăluie copiilor că balaurii există. Copii ştiu deja că balaurii există. Basmele le dezvăluie copiilor că balaurii pot fi omorâţi.” – G.K.Chesterton
Basmele ne invata cand suntem mici ca Binele invinge mereu Raul. Atunci cand crestem descoperim ca scriitorii, zeii care au creat povestile noastre, sunt la randul lor oameni. Si viata nu inseamna perfectiune. Descoperim in spatele fiecarui astfel de zeu un om care a fost ingenunchiat de propria lume interioara, in viata caruia uneori Raul a triumfat asupra Binelui …
Cred ca sunt doua tipuri de lumi. Primul si cel mai mare univers e facut din oameni care sunt pozitionati la mijloc de viata. Aici, viata si fericirea inseamna: ne nastem, crestem, iubim si ne indragostim, ne facem o cariera, avem un copilas, murim. Exista bucurii si tristete, exista siguranta, dreptul la fericire, dreptul de a te simti pe tine si de a nu fugi de tine. Exista puterea de a te uita in oglinda si a zambi, de a te ierta, de a zambi in fata amintirilor. Si o astfel de viata e perfecta.
Exista un univers in care putem arunca artistii, criminalii, psihopatii, savantii, alcoolicii, sinucigasii, etc. Piri Thomas. House. Woolf. Joyce. Picasso. Hemingway. Si toti ceilalti a caror nume nu sunt cunoscute. Oamenii de aici sunt pozitionati la extreme. Aici viata inseamna: ne nastem, crestem, luptam, incercam sa iubim si sa ne indragostim, ne autodistrugem si-i distrugem pe ceilalti, visam la TOT ce lumea cealalta are, numai ca balamalele in noi sunt prea subrede pentru a mai putea schimba ceva. Fiecare zi e o noua incercare de a face un pas inainte, de a uita sau de ce nu, a accepta. La toti gasim un centru, o gaura neagra in care balaurii s-au nascut, in care tot ce tine de lumea cealalta s-a pierdut … si cu toate acestea, ei sunt cei care ne invata sa PRIVIM viata, sa o IUBIM, ei ne arata partea cealalta a vietii, si ne fac mai buni, mai sinceri, mai sensibili …
Primul univers reproseaza celuilalt ca nu traiesc. Al doilea ii indeamna pe toti sa traiasca. Primului univers ii este teama de a accepta ca o lume ca cea a lui Piri Thomas exista. Al doilea e dezgustat de realitatea pe care o poarta mereu in el insasi. Primul nu poate intelege deciziile, rationamentele, sentimentele celui de-al doilea. Al doilea ravneste la primul univers, la o sansa la fericire, si mereu se intreaba “Does nobody understand?” Primul e dezgustat de auto-distrugerea celui de-al doilea si vrea sa nu inteleaga. Al doilea, ar face orice pentru a nuse mai simti pe el insusi. Si de a uita durerea din interiorul lor.
It’s all about PAIN. Capital P. Si aici e marea diferenta dintre cele doua. Pentru al doilea, se merge numai pe extreme. De la non-feelings la sentimente care ofera totul. Pain. Pentru ca nu mai vor sa simta ura si dezgustul pe care-l au pentru propria fiinta. Pentru ca nu mai suporta gheata care s-a instalat in jurul lor, pentru ca sentimentul, singurul sentiment urias, care le-a ucis pe celelalte e atat de imens incat distruge totul, de la spirit, la trup. Vor sa uite. Asta e problema. Vor sa uite amintirile care li s-au intiparit in comportament, visele care ii trezesc in toiul noptii, propriile lor fapte. Si daca mai punem temperamentul artistic la scriitori/pictori/etc, care le ofera sensibilitatea aia uriasa la orice, drumul spre iad e deja hotorat. Asa ca Dumnezeu se arunca in uitare … un pahar, doua, o sticla. Dimineata, pentru totdeauna. Faulkner, N. Stanescu, etc, etc, etc. Pastilele care ii slabesc, ii adorm, care ii fac sa uite. Orice pentru a uita. Apa care-i atrage ca un magnet, pentru ca e atat de CALM acolo, pentru ca in acele valuri nu vei mai simti, nu va mai durea, nu vei mai gandi … pistoale care intr-o secunda sterg premii, ani de munca, romane, coduri de onoare. Hemingway.
Cati din primul univers pot privi cu sange rece realitatea de dincolo de ei? Cati dintre noi putem intelege ceva daca nu am simtit, daca nu am trecut la randul nostru prin asa ceva? Cati dintre noi ii pot ierta pe cei de sus? Cati dintre noi ii putem accepta in cercul nostru pe Ceilalti? Cati dintre noi avem empatia necesara si dorim sa intelegem? Do we really want to understand them?! Is it worth?
Singurul lucru pe care-l facem e sa ne facem ca uitam viata lor. Dupa ce au murit, desigur. Daca trecem pe langa un om beat pe strada, simtim dezgust, mila sau ura. Daca citim poeziile lui Stanescu, sau proza lui Faulkner, spunem: Genial. Daca auzim de un X/Y/Z ca s-a omorat, suntem din nou, dezgustati. Daca e un artist maret, suntem socati. Daca Madalina Manole s-a sinucis, majoritatea dintre noi spunem: “A fost o proasta”. Si Hemingway, si Woolf s-au sinucis. E aceasi categorie. Say it. Think it. “Hemingway a fost un prost. Woolf a fost o proasta.”????? No, I can’t. Because they were brilliant people.
Nu afirm ca toti oamenii "cu pasarele la cap" vor fi/sunt genii. Nu afirm ca toti cei care au probleme cu droguri/alcool/etc vor fi/sunt genii, ca omul care doarme pe strada ta, e un alt Faulkner. E mai mult decat distrugere pentru a fi acel Dumnezeu care ne invata ca Binele invinge mereu Raul. Desi stiu ca nu e asa. Desi toti dintre ei, dintre artistii de mai sus, au stiut mereu ca nu e asa. Sansa la fericire. Sansa de a trai. The first universe is in charge. The first universe is their God. Si daca al doilea univers e atat de las incat nu poate coopera cu viata, primul e las pentru ca nu poate, nu vrea sa inteleaga de ce au un astfel de comportament, de ce sunt ceea ce sunt.
Si ma intreb, oare chiar vrem sa-i intelegem, chiar vrem sa privim dincolo de masti, de oglinzi care distorsioneaza, chiar vrem sa-i ascultam, chiar putem sa-i iubim si sa le oferim un loc la fericire? Si daca da, oare de ce?
Dancing bears/Painted wings/Things I almost remember,/And a song someone sings/once upon a December …
I wish for a white December. From all the months of the year, December is for me the most magical, the most holly, the most sacred. If snowflakes could accomplish me a wish, I would catch one and whisper to it: I wish for my December ...
I tightly close my eyes and when I open them again, I am in my mountain house. Outside everything is white and I am looking at the fireplace. In this month, I am running on the hills, building snowmen, fortresses, playing with my dogs and my friends. I am dancing on the ice, faster, and faster and faster and when I am too tired, I lay in the snow, looking at the sky. December nights … I like to lay down on the snow, looking at the stairs from the above, and at the stairs around me … there is peace, silence, beauty and a warmth coldness. Yes, you see, I miss warmth ...
“Someone holds me safe and warm”… there is a Christmas, there is a New Eve … and here things stay a little bit different than in my city … no one is busy with cooking, shopping or cleaning, no one “respects the tradition” and forgets the people around him/her. I am looking at the gorgeous Christmas-tree, too excited to open the gifts because I already know what Santa brought me, because I know these things shall be present ONLY here, in my December …
I wish for Peace. And all that I must do is to take the green box and open it up. I wish for Silence. Not the Silence that kills, but the Silence that hugs, that gives warmth, which brings everlasting Peace. I wish for Warmth. Gentle, like a kiss on the forehead. I wish for Forgiveness, towards me, towards all of you. I wish for Snowflakes all this month. All my life I have been looking for these things, all my life I have been demanding them, and now, under a Christmas tree, they lay in boxes, waiting for me to open … cleaning up the pain, charging me with Hope …
But you see, before I can feel them, I again close my eyes and see that the tiny snowflake that I caught has melted away. I am alone, somewhere at the middle of a frozen water, and the snow hits me strongly. I take off my pagan human being-clothes and my naked soul kneels down. The coldness hits me strongly, rushing through my veins, whispering in my ears … You already knew that. You already felt it last year. You are the fool that dared to believe … I wish for this voice to shut up. I wish for human beings to be here. I wish I were God just once and turn back the time. And IT HURTS so much that I'm starting to cry. On a frozen water, full of snow ... December. Full of snow, of thoughts and memories, where things remain the same. You never receive anything, you must give up your foolish dreams ... December that cuts into wounds, December that is the same with one last December, December that is the opposite of my December, December that I want to go away.
"It is better to lose your pride with someone you love rather than to lose that someone you love with your useless pride."
LAST WORDS… aren’t always the words that you feel and mean. We scream, we cry, we let our pride rule our actions, not taking into account our hearts. Because in the name of pride, we forget about clocks, saying that for the rest we shall have Time. Even You forgot this, even You forgot me. So dear Pride, let me tell you some things in the name of myself, in the name of souls and hearts.
You’re a fool. This is my beginning. It is said that you never forget, but this time, you forgot so many things! And you ignored, you forgot me. You let your angriness swallow everything that mattered, you attacked your own God, you broke rules. And it is said that you’re fond of rules, isn’t it?
You’re afraid. The more you love, the more you’re afraid; the more afraid you are, the more you attack. It wasn’t nice. You felt angriness from the bottom of our pride; now you feel remorse from the bottom of your heart. Feel ME deep, under your skin. Remember? It’s your own wish, and if you’re so self-destructive, why don’t you let the others LIVE and BE HAPPY? So, let’s die a little, just a little, let’s feel it in order to think of last words, love, friendship and pride. What do you choose now?
You want to apologize, but you can’t. Because you said too much, because you’re aware of this. You want to say the real things now, the things that matter, the things that you value, the things that you worship. But you’re afraid that all your words will be seen as hypocrisy now. This is the worst thing that hurt us, isn’t it? Doubt towards you. Doubt towards soul. Doubt of your friendship. And in reality, things are a little different, aren’t they? She’s not the one who owns you anything; YOU are the one that in all your lifetime, can’t thank her enough. Lots to say here, isn't it? Too complicated, right? And you weren’t angry towards the present, ‘cause you’re always controlled by your own past, ‘cause you don’t feel this wound, that yes, it’s a shit, but you feel the other one, that hollowed your soul.
What about now? Dear sweetie, only Death teaches you to live. Why don’t you see Life, why don’t you learn from it? She was so damn right, isn’t she? And she touched again that wound. Cry now, hear me next to you and yes, you can’t do quite anything to stop me, hear the tocks on your walls, on your TIME, on your last words. Feel and Think. In the name of soul.
“You guys,” Terri said. “Stop that now. You’re making me sick. You’re still on the honeymoon, for God’s sake. You’re still gaga, for crying out loud. Just wait. How long have you been together now? How long has it been? A year? Longer than a year?”
“Going on a year and a half, ” Laura said, flushed and smiling.
“Oh, now,” Terri said. “Wait awhile.”
She held her drink and gazed at Laura.
“I’m only kidding,” Terri said.
Raymond Carver
Today I’ve talked with a child. I have no idea from where to start, how to explain to him the things that I know, how to save his soul. When I was listening to him, I was thinking of Carver’s lines, from What We Talk about When We Talk about Love.Love. How can I explain to him what love is all about?
I am a Carver thinker. Reality emptied of lyrical stuff, reality naked of sentimentalism, of dreams, of forever fairytales. And this reality is being made more powerful, much more stronger, ironically, by its nakedness. Few weeks ago I talked with a friend about marriage and children. She doesn’t want to hear about them right now, but she agreed with me. Although marriage is a piece of paper and the real marriage is about real feelings, build up in TIME, I advised her to wait. How much time do you need to really know a person, to really know yourself? Beginnings are always nice, sweet, and beautiful. And when I talk about beginnings, I’m not talking about the first months of a relationship, the first butterflies, when you cannot see or talk with anyone else, because your mind is set only on your love, but I’m talking about the first years. Every relation had a beautiful beginning, from those few people who grew older together, to those who divorced, screamed, hit each other, to those people who identify themselves in lines such as “Just gonna stand there/And watch me burn, But that’s alright/Because I like the way it hurts/Just gonna stand there/And hear me cry/Because that’s alright/Because I love the way you lie.” Are these people sane or insane to love PAIN?
So yes, I really disagree with people that talk about marriage after they know each other for a year and a half. I told her that if I were her, I would wait for at least three years, because this is me, and REASON should take control a little bit for such a huge step. Think of the people around you. You think that you’re the only one who felt like this, but ALL the persons – from parents, grandparents to friends – felt the same as you. Because we are all human beings and because for all of them, LOVE had promised a better life and not destruction. Destruction of souls, homes, and bodies. And because in time, for all your love, for all your feelings and for your lack of cold thinking, someone else would suffer. And now I’m talking about that child that I met this morning … how can I explain to him that fairytales does not exist, that people change and are too busy to see, to understand him? How can I make him feel better, not guilty, for all the things that he sees?
I wanted to hug him, but he didn’t let me, as he never lets anyone around him do this. I wanted to soothe him, to make him cry, but all that I could do was to feel his rage. I tried to teach him to give warmth to people that he loves, but when he finally did this, he received coldness, ironic, from those people who scolded him for being too frozen … I don’t want to know what’s inside his soul. And it’s just a child … how fair is the world? How can we judge people being good and bad, when WE create other human beings?! Us, not God. This child should repeat the things that he saw, never understanding his angriness. If he is strong enough, he would take the other road, but what is the price he must pay inside of him for such a decision? And really, honey, I don't think I'm able to handle him on my own.
People are selfish. Too selfish. People feel before they think. And what is worst, they first feel themselves, are thirsty of happiness and blinded by it. Why they just can’t feel the things they do not know, why should things happen to them in order to understand them? We’ve got everything, every feeling, every thought, good and bad, inside ourselves. Why can’t they see, touch this part of their souls? Yes, I think that if we knew each other from the beginning, the Earth would be a Paradise. Meantime, because we’re running after happiness without thinking a little bit of the future, without seeing the people around us, and when we reach this future, we’re too weak to act, to cut the evil, to take life and start over again, to protect our children, the world is just another paradise lost.
So yes, taking him into account, LISTENING and paying attention to this song, staying in front of such a child, DO tell me how can I tell him that the world is full of colours when he only sees gray, how could I make him smile when he feels the way he feels, how can I teach him to feel LOVE, any kind of love, when he has never received it ... DO tell me, what can I answer when he asks me:" What we talk about when we talk about love?!"
Candva, demult, credeam in profan si sacru. Astazi m-am ascuns intr-o cochilie de melc si pe jumatate adormita de la oboseala, de la Cola, de la lupte care nu se mai sfarsesc, ma arunc in nisip, ascultand marea. M-am plimbat desculta pe aici, cautand o ora de ieri, o ora de maine, o litera scrijelita pe o amintire. Fara masti? Oboseala singuratate manie singuratate remuscare singuratate extenuare calm pentru ca sunt infranta. Ironic, rabdarea, speranta mea, au rezistat in fata tacerii, a cuvintelor pline de amintiri, in fata nepasarii, in fata propriilor sentimente, in fata necunoscutului, dar s-au prabusit la un detaliu insignifiant, la un lucru la care nu m-am gandit ... flux al amintirilor involuntare, prabusind un castel de nisip.
.