Abandoned creatures

We are all abandoned children. We journey through life in search for our parents, even if they are still alive and besides us. We yearn for some ancestral parents whose identities we don’t know. We never find them; we go through gutters, endure cold weather, wearing ragged clothes and yet we continue. We stop from time to time and wait for them to appear, crying out for their presence. But nobody listens so we return to the road, until we get tired and hopeless. When the body no longer cooperates, we embrace the idea that our parents are within us – that we are our own parents. Yet, we stumble, we don’t know what to ask and what to offer to ourselves. We end up feeling compelled to embrace the longlines.

Where is the promise of love?

The impossible

Here I am alone

Wanting the impossible

It’s autumn in spring

A child

I met you in a club
Much younger than me
My heart beat hard
Indulging me to follow it

My love…. a child’s love
How can one refuse something like that?
Who can leave a child?

And that is why
The child is always alone
Abandoned
Because childish love is a sweet illusion
One of the ones one is seduced to live

It is weird how some thoughts won’t go, until we become them

Away from brushes

It is true that people use each other. The way they do it is different and almost an art. I have the label of being alone and being left alone on my forehead. I don’t know where from this comes, from my childhood, from my genes. It even doesn’t matter. It matters that I don’t own myself, therefore I can’t be free. How can one be himself when he is terrified by being left alone?

I let people use me, I don’t expect something in return. This is how I live my life. But I can’t beat the sadness of it. It drags me down, away from people I use to love, away from my creative self.

Some says to be creative, to do things for myself. How can I do these things if the burdens keep me far from the brushes?

No God to care

There is no God to help us, the univers doesn’t care about us, nor the gravity, nor tge nature, nor the death or the devil. Only humans have the ability to care. If this is not enough, we are lost.

She, the sadness

My sadness is so loud, I can hear it. I can talk to it, it answers recklessly. In fact is a ‘she’. I told her I accept her and maybe I can love her, so she stays with me.

Amintirea ca sfidare a mortii

Am fost de curand la tara, in satul in cate am copilarit. Fiecare zona mi-a adus anumite amintiri, senzatii diferite in locuri diferite. Cel mai mult am simtit cand am vazut campul, noroiul de pe drumul ce duce la cimitir, parcurs de atatea ori cu bunica mea inainte de rasaritul soarelui. Mi-a venit sa ma intind acolo jos, sa ma amestec cu pamantul proaspat arat. Amintirile, sentimentele aproape uitate m-au surprins atat de placut. Am simtit ca traiesc.

Nu e nimic mai viu decat amintirea copilariei, poate de asta oamenii tind sa se intoarca la locurile natale la batranete. Pentru ca nu e nimic mai dureros decat uitarea, si locurile natale sunt o modalitate buna de readucere aminte ca infruntare a mortii.

la foc mic

oamenii mor din lipsa de iubire. se sting incet ca lumanarea ce arde.

iubirea este imposibila, doar nebunia ei minunata creaza iluzia ca ar fi posibila. omul cauta totusi solutii de a o face posibila. unii reusesc sa gaseasca o modalitate de a crede in ea, o putere de a se autoiluziona, ceilalti, cei multi, se consuma usor la foc mic.

in acelasi timp, ea este cea care ne tine in viata. speranta implinirii ei. altfel spus, iluzia iubirii inseamna viata, lipsa ei moarte.

murim usor, in fiecare zi, nemangaiati, neintelesi, intr-o fuga continua de a ne castiga un trai decent, nevoiti sa ne consumam pentru lucruri neimportante.

Usa inchisa

Nu am putut distinge daca era vocea ta sau nu. In spatele usii se petrecea altceva, alta atmosfera, alte voci decat cele cunoscute de mine. Erai tu poate, dar vocea o pastrasem pentru mine. Usa inchisa m-a trimis intr-un alt univers, unul cetos si rece, in care pare ca nu cunosc pe nimeni si oricum, daca se apropie cineva, ma sperii. Aici nimeni nu are nevoie de nimeni, toti oamenii sunt proprii lor amanti, proprii lor parinti si fiecare isi vede de treaba lui. Aici dai noroc cu oameni muribunzi si le urezi o zi buna, apoi mergi si savurezi micul dejun cu colegii de serviciu, pe care oricum nu ii cunosti prea bine. Hai sa ne maturizam si sa ne traim fiecare propria moarte. Ce gust amar!