Last Wednesday

One day everything was gone…the shoes, the tea, the pills, the phone, the tobacco, the bed, the book, the floor, the smell…her smell, everything. He tried to move, but he couldn’t. He had no feet, he had no arms, he had no body, he had nothing. He was like a transparent void of air which floats from one room to another without changing the course of any kind of time passing activity. He felt empty, but he was not. He could remember everything.

Last time he remembered his feet being cold was on Friday, when he went outside in the middle of the night to get milk. She couldn’t drink tea without milk. The streets were empty. It was winter. It was one of those very cold winter nights, when everything is frozen as if under a spell. The trees were barely moving, slightly dancing by the lazy movement of the wind. The path was icy, he looked at his shoes…his house shoes, he forgot to take his outside shoes, he was in a hurry. She was very impatient. When he got to the first crossroad, the street lights were constantly changing, though there wasn’t any kind of car sound around. The deserted streets looked so peaceful. He stopped. He wanted to breath the air in. The air was heavy. He felt his lungs getting frozen and defrozen, as if taken from the freezer straight to the microwave and back. He had to move. She was waiting. He couldn’t feel his little toe. It was numb. His feet were cold.

Last time he cut his hair was last Thursday afternoon, after he drank three glasses of wine at his best friend’s pub. Great place, warm and cosy, full of men hiding from their wives and women hiding from their girlfriends. It smelled like old cheese and red wine, old red wine, the one you only drink because you respect its age and defiance of time. She always said this pub was Satan’s favourite place, when he was getting bored of tempting. His friend, best friend, invited him to show the new piano he bought from a poor guy who needed money to pay for his poker debts and didn’t want his wife to find out. That is why he was there, he was hiding. His friend offered to help the poor guy, though he bargained like a Morrocan. The piano was beautiful, Brazilian redwood, Steinway and Sons. His best friend recommended him a good hairdresser. He needed a haircut. She told him so. The seventy seven years old neighbour was a hairdresser all his life and could only do men, boys and dogs. Women were too complicated. He drank one more glass of wine and then went straight to get his hair cut.

Last time he danced was two years ago at a Halloween party. It was a bad party, he wasn’t drunk, but the woman he liked at that point was, so he went dancing. He was a bad dancer and his balls had nothing to do with it. The music was good, ’90s. He liked ’90s. Oh no, that is a complete lie, it was not at all the last time he danced. The last time he actually danced was on Thursday evening, in the park, on a bench, with her, for her, he danced.

Last time he had a headache was on Friday, after all that respectful wine. She was upset. Fridays were for going out. He slept almost the whole day. She gave him pills. They made it a tea night, black tea with milk and honey. The milk finished. It was shared with Bach, the cat. She insisted on him going to buy more. He still had the headache.

Last time he mentioned her to his mother was when Friday night turned into Saturday morning. He went to get milk, for her, at almost midnight, and his little toe almost died out of cold in his house shoes. The little toe was his mother’s toe, the only part of his body he took after her. That reminded him that it was his mother’s birthday, until less than seventy seconds ago, so he called to say happy birthday from him and, from her.

Last time he felt undecided was on Saturday morning. He was in a hurry. He needed to catch the train to his mother’s house before he went to work. He wanted to give her flowers for her birthday and apologise for his bad memory, lack of feelings and bad timing, which he all took after his father. He entered a flower shop called “Never too late”. He couldn’t remember his mother’s favourite flowers, but he knew hers. She liked orchids, white, with pink in the middle. They didn’t have orchids. He couldn’t decide on a different kind. He didn’t get any. He was undecided.

Last time he had to sign something was on Saturday afternoon, he went to a Book Shop called “Pathos”, after the flower shop, and bought a book for his mother, a cooking book. She liked to cook, that he knew. There was no time left to pass by his mother’s house so he decided to send it as a package wrapped in a gift paper, white paper with pink ribbons. He wrote a birthday card: “Happy Birthday, Mother”, signed: Your lost in time son.” He didn’t write anything about her. He didn’t think too much about it, he just signed.

Last time he made smoke circles was on Sunday. He said he can do it. She wanted to see. He rolled a cigarette from her tobacco. He didn’t roll for a while. He quit smoking years ago because of his lungs.The tobacco was dry, very dry. He dropped a lot on his pants. Black pants with red lines on the sides. His favourite pair. He took a puff, a very deep one. He felt his lungs screaming. He chocked. She laughed. He took another one, more gentle one and went slowly: Puff…Puff…Puff. Three perfectly round circles. He was proud. She laughed and tried to break with her Zeus finger every single circle: Bang…Bang…Bang.

Last time he made love was on Monday morning. She woke him up. She wanted to be loved. He wanted to love her. He did. It was slow and gentle. They breathed at the same time. She grabbed his hair, pulling it to the ceiling. He liked it. She came close to his ear and whispered “I’ll never forget this”. He smiled. He thought about the same thing. They came at the same time. They didn’t have sex, they made love.

Last time he ate cake was on Monday evening, at his neighbour’s birthday. He didn’t like him. He was not funny. She liked him. She thought he was strange. They drank cheap beer. She was dressed in white. He loved that dress. The room was full of people. He had some really exhausting conversations about politics and street dogs with some lawyers. He went to the toilette after each beer. It was a good excuse. She came with him. They loved to watch each other pee. At midnight everyone went to the roof to release Chinese wish balloons into the air. It was cold. He wasn’t drunk enough. She was happy. They had one balloon for two. They decided to make separate wishes. They made the same one. They knew. He was really glad to go back inside, his lungs were screaming. They had cake. It was the best cake.

Last time he finished reading a book was on Tuesday night, at almost midnight. He was reading Kundera. He loved Kundera, she did too. He read to her the last phrase. It was a tradition. They had to finish together. “The man spoke, all the others listened with interest, and their bare genitals stared stupidly and sadly at the yellow sand.” She screamed “Genius!” They looked at each other. There was one small second when there was nothing but pure silence in the room. And then, as if from a deep well, they burst into laughter, together, at the same time, in the same moment. They both collapsed on the floor, like two sacks full of potatoes, one on the top of the other, she on top of him. They couldn’t stop laughing. She pressed her delicate hands on her stomach and shouted “Read it again!” He did. “The man spoke, all the others listened with interest, and their bare genitals stared stupidly and sadly at the yellow sand.” She screamed “Fantastic!” They couldn’t stop laughing for more than an hour. The book was finished.

Last time he laughed out of his lungs for more than an hour was on Wednesday morning, after finishing reading a book. She was there. She was happy. He was happy. She laughed. He laughed.

Last time he heard his heart beating was on Wednesday evening. He was taking a bath. He was under the water. Holding his breath. Listening…Bum. Bum Bum. Bum. Bum Bum. Bum. His heart. She was on the toilette, watching him. He knew that. He listened. Bum. Bum bum. Bum. Bum Bum. Bum. His heart, beating.

Last time he fell asleep was on Wednesday night. After he took a bath. After he listened to his heart beating, under the water. He was holding her in his arms. Her hair was tickling his nose. He was smiling. She smelled like home. He loved her. He could hear her breathing, slow and silent, almost dead like. He was happy. She was there. He fell asleep.

Lincoln green Monday

“Is there something else in there?” she asked.

There was a time when Rose thought of her daily life as a piece of paper she has to put colours on…so she did. She painted her life in red almost every Tuesday, Thursdays were for green and sometimes orange, she loved to watch the sun go down really really fast, Sunday was just another blue day, normal skies, no clouds to poke, no super birds to call by names, Fridays were for black, sometimes black is not enough to make everyone believe you’re more than just a dot, on Wednesdays she wore something between pink and velvet, she couldn’t really decide which one was more than the other, Saturday was not at all as white as everybody thought, underneath she had always hidden some dots of atomic tangerine and Mondays were something else. For Mondays she have made a lifetime list, what colour she would wear for each week of her life (she calculated she will live till 100, just to make sure), wrote them on small pieces of papers, folded as to hide a big secret, putted them in a fishbowl and picked one every Monday morning. That, my dear curious fellows, was not because she wanted to look predictable, but because there was nothing more exciting than to read something you wrote in advance and not to remember what was it exactly. So on her Monday’s list you could find all sort of colours, of which one could not even think of: android green, american rose, antique fuchsia, battleship grey, banana mania, brick red, bubble gum, Lincoln green, denim, dollar bill, granny Smith apple, international orange, light salmon pink, mordant red 19, neon carrot and much more…and all of this, even if you may not believe it, are real colours. They looked on her fantastically fit. No one would ever suspect that there was actually someone on the Lincoln if she decided to take a sunbathe on the top of her father’s Lincoln. It was not at all her favourite place, but she loved to be on a completely different hight level than others. Some would lay on benches, some on the ground, some in some bed, some in someone else’s bed, someone on a high building…but only her father owned a Lincoln, at it was great.

Today was her birthday. She was not alone and yet, the trees outside seemed to call her for a chat. Those old bastards are never getting tired of colourful conversations. It was Sunday and Rose was as blue as an endless sky with no clouds. The table was full of blue plates, on which you could see the marks of fingers that wanted to make sure there won’t be any blue cake left, a lot of dirty blue glasses, 100 broken blue candles and you could hear from the other room, as if from far away in the woods, some sounds of melancholic music, blues.

“No, there is nothing left. The bowl is empty.” he answered.
She smiled.

I am a live

Who are you? Yes, You! the person who’s reading this not knowing why the hell is he/she actually doing this. Are you alone? Why do you instantly think that I’m asking about the closest spacial proximity, how about the building, the city, the country, the world, life? Are you alive? How often? Are you a man? A real one? What do I mean? So you’re not…or maybe you’re a woman, which means 3 seconds ago you smiled. Are you happy? ok, let’s skip this one. Are you mad? about something or someone and you’re just wasting time around (reading this) thinking time will give you the answer? well, it does, every day and mostly every morning. Are you a morning person? if not, you’re not listening to the right music. Are you clean? As a whole? Are you complete? Are you simple? like nothing you can think of right now, but everything you can imagine? Are you a horse? What color?

When I was 6, I received a birthday present from my grandmother and my parents (I think), a counting mechanism, very colorful one (the red i remember the most), simple one, used in shops at the cash register long time ago, still used in my country and I still have no idea how it works. My gradmother asked me “are you happy?” I was, it was colourful. I hated math. I still do.
Are You happy? Sorry, I needed to get back to this.
Are you? throw a coin.

Are you a pervert? in your mind, dreams, bed? Are you close? to what you want. i’m sure there is something eatable close to you. Are you a dreamer? don’t wake up, don’t wake up, don’t wake up…crap! Are you aware of your soul? How? Are you aware of your ears? Do you hear? do you hear the world, YOUR world…Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen L i s t e n _ __ ____!
Did you know then when you write a word a lot of times it starts to seem wrongly spelt? Try it. I know you won’t. Are you fat? you must hate summer. I love it. Are you insane? Are you my friend? How often?

Are you YOU? really? i am amazed, no matter what the answer.
Are you still here? for how long? so you’re about to die. No, fool, i am not asking are you here on that chair/sofa/floor/bed/carpet/window. I am also on a chair, not a very good one, it’s from my kitchen and it’s uncomfortable like hell…yes, hell is uncomfortable, because it’s upside down. I am here X

Imagine the interview of your life:
-Hello.
-Hello.
-Take a sit.
-Thank you.
-Coffee?
-Tea.
-Sugar?
-No. I am very glad to be here.
-We don’t have “I’m very glad to be here” sugar.
(forced laugh, from you)
-Who are you?
-I’m sorry? (who am I? who am I? who am I? who am I? jduzguykgakweugfwugjbcMHBkjUGKJABSJJBZXJKBGKJUBDSJBJVKZJBSJBDKVJHBAJUGBV Ncsbzjhbjbvjkejvjbvzjs,j,j,jbszv,jheluycgauwgwlekbjlbvjaugwbacwjbvlugevlabwjevbliug……..)
-Who are you?
-aaaaa (msnbvdkjagwkugvekjbac,jblwekugvbjbalkvuzgjk) … well, I (stop there!).

We tend do feel insulted when someone, out of the blue or green or dark green, asks us “who are you”? Insulted = first you think “what do you mean who I am, can’t you see?” then you fast, very fast look for a smart answer, you think “this answer is important, it’s gonna define me, it’s what this asshole will remember of me…who am I? who am I? who am I? who am I?) ok, nothing comes to my mind…shit, I am nothing…I can’t say that. I am not nothing!…this guy thinks he’s smart…shit…why, after all (?), is he asking me this? who the hell is he? = Insulted.

I was asked twice in my life.
First time, it was a singer, good looking, not very good looking. Friend of a friend’s brother. True story. I wanted an autograf. He asked me holding a pen, my pen, “for whom? who are you?” “well, i don’t know, I am Cristina” I still have his autograf and above it “for Cristina, who doesn’t know who she is”. Oh, I felt insulted. I still have it.
Second time, few days ago, a guy who wanted to flirt with me, asked me crawling next to me like a cat “who are you?…I smiled (this smile said: you are not getting anything)…and I answered “I am Cristina” very convinced. Oh, I was disappointed. He wasn’t. He didn’t get my smile or my lack of imagination.
Do you know why we don’t really say the first thing that comes to our minds, because it’s funny, not stupid, funny…for others. We would love to shout it, scream it until we get hemoroids and then become “THAT, with hemoroids”…which is even funnier…for others. You know what’s the funiest part: the answer you actually give.

Who are you? Are you a smoker? Are you a dancer? always be! Are you black?…we all are inside our noses. Are you white? winter is taken. Are you fast? ok, you need more condoms. Are you a color? green is overrated. Are you hungry? I just went to kitchen. Got some cereals, milk, watermelon and sugar…all in one bowl. It’s 20.51. I’m hungry. Are you a fighter? Who’s the enemy? Are you my friend?

When I was in High School, a train hit me. I was shocked. Very. Everyone was fakely worried, because I knew that was funny as hell…yes, hell is funny, because it’s upside down. I started to cry. Like a small baby. My teacher, of religion, asked me “why are you crying? are you hurt?” “no, I am alive”.
I am a live. I am a dreamer. I am a dancer. I am a river. I am a map. I am a palm. I am a tree. I am a book. I am a scar. I am a cat. I am a window. I am a child. I am a melon. I am a wish. I am a dot. I am a miracle. I am a paradox. I am a frog. I am a plug. I am a calendar. I am a needle. I am a word. I am love. I am a piece.
I am a naked man on a bicycle. I am a bracelet. I am a song. I am a drug. I am skin. I am a tomato from your last night salad. I am a bird. I am a mirror. I am a nose, full of dust. I am a virus. I am a dark stain on a wedding dress. I am a cake. I am a violin. I am a lamp. I am a pocket. I am a superhero. I am the left foot. I am a blanket. I am a cup of tea, black with honey and milk. I am a monster, made of jelly. I am a clown, without a nose. I am a fish, on a wall. I am a star, somewhere. I am an open door of a room with no flowers. I am a belly button without a hole. I am a caramel candy. I am a beginner. I am a note, La. I am an astronaut, under water, in a bathtub. I am a field…endless. I am a red lip on a black and white party. I am a pen. I am a circle. I am a poker card, under the table, under a shoe, man shoe, size 44. I am an eye. Sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes. I am a seeker. I am a puzzle, of more then 10. 000 pieces. I am a joke. I am a world.
I am a question: who are you?

Banal conversations with Time

You don’t start to appreciate the true value of time, until you really want it to pass, fast…because then it doesn’t! Why should it? It has time. Can it acutally control himself, can it just order himself to stop? If not, who can? Maybe time are more…Slow time, Fast time, Boring time, Colourful time, Dinner time, Change time, Kissing time (I like this one), Dying time, Dark time, Gold time, Bad Time, Bed Time, Eating time, Pretending time, Waiting time (hate that one), Dancing time, Shit time, Good time, Almost perfect time, Perfect time (God bless people who are never late to come), Insane time, Sick time, In time, Waiting time (I know it was already, but I just hate this one), Weird time, Coffee time, Big time! Short time, …. time, …. time, ….time, …..
Does time like time? Do they meet? If time goes back, do they sit for a drink and chat about weather? or fashion? or death? Is time scared of the end of time? Does time need affection? or attention? I’m sorry. Why does time get shorter? Is it getting old? than why does everyone call it new? Does time suffer from Progeria? That means it should die in his mid’teens or early than twenties. Is he new enough?
How can you feel the spirit of time if it’s not dead?
Is time money? Really? That sounds stupid and looks even stupider. Who ever said that needed both desperately, though none cure stupidness. We kill time every day. 6 billion of people kill time every day. How? By doing nothing. No wonder we’re in chains.
Does time run out of time? Of course, otherwise where the lost time comes from?
Did time ever loved another time? or a human? or the air? or life? or mornings? I guess he didn’t, you lose track of time when you’re in love and time is not allowed to do that. Isn’t that sad? Mybe that’s the reason he gets crankier, he’s pissed at us…we can stop anytime, without wanting it, without anticipating it, we can lose ourselves any second.
Is time more into seconds or minutes? or weeks? or months? or seasons? or years? or eras? or nothing? Maybe just into coffee. I’m not.
Picture time, not a clock, not a watch, not a complicated mechanism, personalize it, take it for a walk in your thoughts, talk to it…what is your first question? Do you really need to ask?

A banal conversation with Time:
-Hey Time.
-Hey.
-Do you have a cigarette?
-I don’t smoke.
-Why?
-I heard it kills.

Another banal conversation with Time:
-Hey Time.
-Hey.
-How you’ve been lately?
-Bored.
-Why?
-No more good movies on TV.
-Television sucks.
-Well…”Time Wrap” is really cool.
-You’re too self centered.
-No, I’m just fast.

Here it is. Television can rewind time, Photography can pause time, Writers can reproduce time, Art can stop time. What is art? That is just not something I wish to get into. Time is enough, but there is not enough time. We need to stop it, more often.

Another banal conversation with Time:
-Hey Time.
-Hey.
-Can I touch you?
-When?
-Now.
-Where?
-Here.
-No.
-Why?
-I don’t like you.
-Why?
-You’re not big enough.
-Are you?
-I was.

Is time happy? Maybe just Happy time is happy, I don’t think Almost perfect time is happy since there is Perfect time. But Perfect isn’t happy either, he also knows about the other. A lot of expressions about time are stupid. For example: Time of my life, Time Out, Ahead of time, At all times, Behind the time, Time is up, Make time for something or someone, In time (is it cozy?), Too much time on my hands, Couple of times, Time heals, Never.

My last banal conversation with Time:

-Hey Time.
-Hey.
-If i’ll get big enough, can I touch you?
-No.
-Why?
-You are annoying.
-That’s why?
-No.
-Why?
-I’m incomplete.

Despre complexitatea gunoiului

Înainte ca soarele să apuce să răsara, străzile sunt deja pline de forfota gunoierilor de dimineaţă. Parcă se face curăţenie peste noapte, dar tot mizerie găseşti la fiecare colţ. Gunoierii de dimineaţă sunt alt fel de specie. Ei nu au maşini performante, care fac nişte zgomote de zici că reasfaltează străzile în fiecare noapte, şi scot aburi de zici că respiră o sută de boi înhămaţi la un jug teribil; ei nu au nici uniforme speciale, din acelea de le vezi de la un kilometru, de ţi se pare că au invadat extratereştrii străzile. Gunoierii de dimineaţă nu sunt cu nimic speciali, nu i-ai putea deosebi de restul oamenilor, dar atunci când restul oamenilor dorm, chiar şi extratereştrii, ei curăţă ce-a rămas, până şi cele mai uitate colţuri.
Printre ei cel mai cunoscut e unul zis Basarabeanul. Nu e tocmai cel mai vorbăreţ specimen. Nu l-a prea auzit nimeni vorbind. Singura şansă era atunci când la fiecare gunoi, fie el şi o jumătate de coajă de sămânţă sau o şosetă, care te intrebai cum naiba a ajuns acolo, în timp ce îl plasează cu atenţie în oala cu gunoi, îi şopteşte “Pentru Basarabia”. Nu-şi uită niciodată replica. E ca un fel de ritual. Ai impresia, că e nebun, că a uitat de sine şi nu mai ştie pe ce lume se află. Mulţi l-au cercetat. Curiozitatea nu e ca mândria, o găseşti pe toate rafturile, dar el nimenui nu i s-a spovedit.
Într-o zi găsise un călcâi de pâine coaptă, aruncat sub o tufă de trandafir, lăsat parca de cineva în acel loc, deloc secret, pentru zile negre. Basarabeanul îl luă cu grija, se uită bunghit în jur, apoi la călcâi, îl mirosi…încă mirosea a cuptor încins, a iz de ţară, a pumnii crăpaţi ce-au frământat aluatul, a bucuria grâului cosit…îl sărută, de parcă îşi cerea iertare celui ce a îndrăznit să-l lase acolo. Îl băgă în buzunarul secret al jachetei, uitându-se precaut în jur, parcă speriat să nu-l fi ajuns zilele negre pe uituc şi şopti abia repirând “Pentru Basarabia”. Munca gunoierilor, nu e chiar uşoară pe cât se pare, nici josnică pe cât se crede, ba chiar foarte captivantă. Cu gunoaiele nu e de glumit. Trebuie să ştii pe fiecare în ce oala îl bagi. Unele trebuie reciclate, altele ar fi bine să dispară de pe faţa pământului, altele ar trebui păstrate cu grijă, aruncate fiind din nesabuinţă, se pare.
Basarabeanul era grijuliu. Avea ritual. Boteza fiecare gunoi, de orice culoare, îl întorcea pe toate părţile să-i vadă şi dedesubturile…de departe multe par interesante, de aproape…le cam simţi mirosul. “Pentru Basarabia” însă le şoptea la toate.
Într-o noapte se stârni o furtună aprigă. De mult nu mai simţise colţul ăsta de lume o urgie atât de mare. Gunoaiele fuseseră împrăştiate peste tot, ajunseseră până şi în casele oamenilor, pe canapelele din sufragerie, pe după televizoare, pe rafturile cu cărţi, pe dupa icoanele cu sfinţi; în orice gospodărie puteai întrezari câte unul. Lumea parcă fusese îngropată sub mizerie şi praf. Grea muncă îi aştepta pe gunoierii de dimineaţă.
Basarabeanul fu primul la datorie. Avea ritual. Trecuseră deja ceilalţi gunoieri, cu maşinile lor performante; dar, după cum gândi Basarabeanul nostru “cu maşinării nu te bagi în sufletul omului”. Se uită în jur, vrând parcă să calculeze, oare cât le va lua gunoierilor de dimineaţă să cureţe ce-a mai rămas. Pământul parcă îşi schimbase faţa. Respiră adânc, de câteva ori. Apoi începu “Pentru Basarabia…pentru Basarabia…pentru Basarabia…pentru Basarabia…pentru Basarabia…pentru Basarabia…pentru Basarabia…pentru…..”. Cu cat curăţa mai mult, cu atât i se părea că nu se mai termină. Ştia el însă că de gunoi e greu să scapi, dar nu e imposibil. Unii oameni îl izgoneau, batjocurindu-l, alţii râdeau de el arătându-l cu degetul “Ia uite şi la ăsta, mare gospodar!”, alţii îl ignorau de parcă era şi el un gunoi mai mare, alţii îi zâmbeau cu milă, alţii vroiau să-l ajute…degeaba, nu-i lăsa nici pe unul, ce ştiau ei despre complexitatea gunoiului.
După ore grele de muncă, într-un moment când i se părea că nu mai are puteri să mai mişte, se aşeză pe iarbă să-şi tragă sufletul. Netezind firele de iarbă, dădu peste o bucată de hârtie mototolită, o desfăcu, se holbă în jur apoi…citi “Mamă, să o ia naiba de furtună, ne-a ajuns gunoiul până-n gât. Am plecat la votare. Să ne-ajute Dumnezeu!”. Zâmbi… îndoi hârtia cu grijă şi o băgă în buzunarul special, cel din dosul jachetei, pe partea stângă, apoi bătu cu palma peste de câteva ori, parcă vrând să simtă că e încă acolo, şoptind cu faţa spre soarele care începea timid să răsară “Pentru Basarabia”…şi o luă de la capat.

The wall in the clouds

I simply love the take-off. The plane stops at the beginning of the flight strip, I imagine instantly the multitude of buttons of different colours in the pilot’s cabin, which makes you think of a Star Trek episode (I saw only 2 of them in my life and only by accident), only this ones you really have to know well.
The sudden high speed sticks you to your seat and then you start asking yourself when?…now?…now?…now? I never guessed. We always took off at the moment when I started to focus more on the speed, or sound, or the natural peacefullness of the passanger next to me, in this case a cheerful german.
I start smiling. Have no idea why. I like the sensation, I have to admit, but I do aknowledge that this is not the reason. Maybe I got contaminated from my neighbour, or (I’m tempted to lie to myself), he did from me.
We estrange rapidly and apparently surely from the ground. My neighbour is picking his nose, making small balls and throwing them on the floor, between me and him, like he intends to build a german wall between us from his apparently very distubring snots, since the spacial proximity of my flowerish shoes and (let me take a look) his mountain boots was not taken into consideration.
Anyway, the man reads…so I have forgiven him, my shoes never. I stare discreetly. He is reading “Voodoo History”, my shoes become exponencially more interested.
Let’s get back to the take-off. I never succeed at identifying my house, building, district, car, streets (which name I never remember, because I am just not interested). The houses become tiny, that’s the moment when I realize why are the sky people so frightening – because they can see our smallness.
We reach the clouds. My german neighbour sleeps with his book in his hand, his cleaned nose is tempted second by second to invade the space of the historical art of voodoo. I ask myself, how come the book didn’t fall yet? Maybe it’s beceause of the coulds, they make it float.
We pass the clouds. The sun is appearing, enlightening exactly my window. I take it as a divine sign, “I’m a special person” I think and start smiling again. This time for a known reason. I am hot. My palms start to sweat, I wipe them off, not at all discreetly, over my balck pants…I guess we passed the discreet line at the foundation of the german wall.
You won’t believe this, he woke up! He starts reading again. Mostly trying than succeeding. A sort of a preparation for a really heavy sleep. I bet he will fall, hopefully, on the book and not on my shoulder which still hurts from my monster backpack.
I detected a polar bear in one cloud. I bet he’s happy. He is.
I dropped my book on the floor. Big mistake. My neighbour germanish manner smiled at me…oh, well, so the wall didn’t reach the mouth level, yet.
I don’t have a watch and on the plane I am not capable of aproximating time…I guess you could say that I spend my entire life in a plane if you knew me.
The clouds remind me of snow, the snow reminds me of cold, I better not look at them. Anyway they are too many to be counted up.
I’m hungry, I could eat anything, anything for free. I never understood why are the prices so high in the plane, to give you the impression that the food tastes better or because they want to prive you from your principles? I’m taking it too far, I’m sure the explanation is simple and stupid, but i can only reach it through complicated eliminations.
How much time is left? Should I ask my neighbour? I don’t think so, I’m too afraid to wake him up from reading. I look fugitively around, too many people that are going bald on this plane. If we would crash successfully, we would die suffocated by hair or snots. I would pick the snots, I use to eat them as a child. Many do. Yet, the sensation of the hair in your mouth…I’m sure the chinese used it as a torture and many betrayed their countries from it.
The stewardess has incredibly white teeth, a mouth like that can convince you of anything.
My neighbour woke up and is insisting on building the wall. If we crash successfully, I’m never getting out of here.
It’s an extremely dense fog outside (how strange “outside” sounds in here, it’s always an approximated one). It’s like we’re in the water. How would a flying submarine look like, or a plane diving? The submarine sounds more plausible, but boring. Maybe if there would really be one, it would be fascinating.
I wonder: how peaceful plane constructors sleep at night? In my opinnion these are the only people that can’t allow themselves to be lazy at work. They have to check a lot (I tried to find a number, but 10 is too small and one thousand is too big, I got lost in between, so I stick at “a lot”) of times to make sure everything is perfect. Here perfection must exist. I bet it’s really hard to be a wife of a plane constructor.
The sky is superb. Clouds of different shapes and sizes, at different hights, through a blue that makes you believe that you finally discovered the true blue colour. Throught the holes in upper clouds I see the inferior layer of clouds, which move to the opposite direction of the superior layer or the same direction as the plane; I wish there would be a supernatural explanation to it or some complicated physics explanation, but I presume it’s just an optical illusion. I shouldn’t look at them. Illusions don’t last long and I don’t want to be dissappointed. The imposibility of counting is enough for now.
I don’t want clouds anymore, I want food and an extra leg room, but both of them cost ten times more here, in the clouds. The constructor of the wall, my neighbour, is smiling. What did he do in Romania, I wonder. Doesn’t matter, I want to believe he’s happy and he loves his wife (he has a wedding ring) and she loves him and I hope they don’t have the same habbits.
The pilot is annoucing that we’re about to land. In a beaten black and blue English he gives us some local ground information and wishes us a “Happy Christmas!”. He sounds bored, I guess he’s not very passionate about the landing.
I have butterflies in my stomach. My palms are sweaty again and it has nothing to do with landing. It’s about the fact that I’m about to kiss…I missed so much the earthly stuff.
We’re landing. I always guess the “Now!”.

keep swimming or just take it!

I always thought life is more about guessing. You can’t really know anything for sure (take religion or prices at McDonalds). You can’t really define the strongest emotions (and those are very important), you can’t really know if you’re going to make it after all (even if in Highschool everybody thought you will) and you can’t really know when black turns white and vice versa. And it worked for me, until it didn’t. The change came when I realized that I know exactly what I want all the time but I’m a chicken (I don’t know why they use this bird for cowardness when it’s a monument for stupidity), meaning I can’t make decisions unless they aren forced, induced or even fed with caramel. Even if I always knew what I wanted and my parents always let me choose whatever I want to do, I somehow ended up going the “wrong” direction. If to the right is a coffee shop with nice colourful windows and at the left is a library with comfortable couches (and I do like sitting confortable on my ass), I will choose the middle path hoping some of those two very different institutions has a magnet for featherless chicken. Well, funny, and sometimes annoying thing, is that it always worked. The magnet was somewhere and, as I concluded later, it’s there mostly by accident. Accidents are signs for me. These are certain unexplicable marks of destiny. I take them as facts and they love me. So now, after I got into a “getting older” vibe, I started to become more cynical, meaning I have my certainties and they are not puffy. It’s not like I’m not guessing anymore, I do, but I know that I’m doing it. I guess what can happen next, but I don’t really make plans, so my “next” is just few seconds away. I know the planet is round and that my kitchen table is too high and I know that I’m not capable of organizing myself (but somehow I like it) and that my mother really believes in me no matter what and that my boyfriend doesn’t have a clue who I really am, but that doesn’t change the fact that I still need to guess. After all, we all become the people we don’t want and it’s not because we get married and we have to, it’s because we always guessed who we really were…even though we always knew it. And it’s good, otherwise the world will be full of firemen and prostitutes. Which doesn’t sound bad, but still…try and picture it! …Ok, Try again.

Long story short, for the men overboard, stop making assumptions, just take it! (as some of my friends would say)

guess, what?

Things change, and they change fast. You can’t stop them, moderate them or change their changing, all you can do is not guessing. If you guess two things can happen: one: you get fucked and second: you will get a surprise, but the problem is that you can’t really enjoy a surprise if you know exactly what you want. Yeah, you smile and everything, but in the back of your head you think about that something that you had on your stupid mind. I’m not calling you stupid, I’m just saying that your mind is stupid, because if it wasn’t your life will be known and planed and wow, you’re dead. That was my wow, you won’t have any wows because you just can’t let go…you just can’t stop guessing. I know, it’s pretty easy to say and hard to do, but guess what: yeah, you can guess now…so? No guessing? Oh c’mon…try! Yeah that’s the trick: when you have to, you just won’t do it. So pretend that there is a big ugly real animation bad character you are scared of and it makes you guess every time, everyday, every minute what’s going to happen next. Try it! You are going to a club, guess what’s going to happen…
-I will meet with friends. –aha… – we will drink something. – aha… –we will get wasted. –good…- and then…-yeah? -out of nowhere – yeah… –suddenly – yeah… – I will see – aha……. – a big piece of flying shit –very funny –it’s stupid! – I thought you wanted to help me write this story – I do, but I mean c’mon, who need you to tell them all the shit they already know and heard a lot of times – Some people do –Who? –What do you mean who? What kind of question is that? – a normal question, one of those annoying “w” questions – yeah, well cut it out, I need help here – Why? –are you starting again? – What? – using the “w questions – when? – fuck off – thanks God, let’s go get wasted and see that shit – I hope it’s flying because if it’s not it’s one of those two: you’re fucked!

Curiosity…of men

I was dying out of curiosity…was it really true that she came back, that she’s close to me again? After all, what does it matter if she was in town? She left me, I was alone, maybe she wasn’t, but I wish she was, ‘cause this way I won’t feel a complete loser, even if I felt so a lot of times after she left. But why didn’t she want to tell me that she was still here, so close to me when I was picturing her on a top of the mountain holding a pirate flag and pretending to smile in case someone actually sees her. I mean, I knew her so well, I knew her better than anyone, more than she knew herself, not that we are ever capable of knowing ourselves, anyway, how could she? Or did she? That was the big question. Or maybe the big question was: if she is here why didn’t she call me, or somehow let me know that she is in the range of my reach, so that I can see and hear her again. I don’t want to touch her, ‘cause if I touched her that would totally prove that she is actually there. My body felt numb, it was all psychological and stuff, but I just couldn’t feel my legs and my arms and my eyes were acting strangely, like they didn’t want to stop and focus, like they were afraid of getting caught in a trap, if they stop that meant that they decided not to move, and not to move meant to stop, forever. I know it doesn’t make sense, but at that point it all made, everything was completely logical, besides the fact that she may have returned. I mean why? Did she forget something, did she miss someone, besides me, whom? Or what? Did she miss something? No, she hated this place, this whole place, never cozy, never warm enough, never dirty enough to give you a reason to leave and too clean to give you an opposite reason to leave. Who thought that it would bother me so much? I mean, she left, I stayed, she wanted to leave, I didn’t, so we did what we wanted and didn’t what we should’ve done, but who can blame us for that? We always do the things that we want, but never the things we really want. I was born to be a loser, but I did care. I cared about her worries that something would go wrong, that our neighbor was rude to her and wanted to jump her in the elevator by pretending to have a heart attack or a stoke or something, something medical and serious. Anyway, he fell on her and she thought that he did that on purpose. I believed her, she was so convincing and yet, the guy died three days later, but that was just a coincidence, she said and I agreed. She could be very convincing. I should find out, if she is here, I can call her, I can talk to her, or just see her and not talk to her, what would I say: Hi, do you have a lighter ‘cause I just quit smoking and I have none. No, I can’t say the same thing I said the first time and hope it’s going to work again. She can’t think I’m stupidly cute two times over the same stupid thing. I need to say something else, like: hey, wanna get wasted and do it on the floor of a public something? No, it’s lame and she doesn’t like when I say things she knows I’m not gonna do ‘cause I’m too scared of getting in trouble. Yes, but I could say that I changed, no, lying to her twice wouldn’t make her laugh, will make her angry and if she’s angry she will definitely not do it with me afterwards. She had this belief that make-up sex is proving that girls don’t have any pride, even if they were the ones who initiated the fight. I know it’s not fair, but what is when it comes to her? I should just call. And say what? Why should I say something? She will know it’s me. I wasn’t very good at talking anyway, ever. Ok, all I need to know is why she came back? I’m calling…
Beep…beep…beep…(crap, three times, I should hang the phone, she is not answering)…beep…(what is wrong with me? Don’t answer, please)…beep…beep…(ok, one more and I hang)…beep…(Ok, one more)…(I’m so stupid, soooo stupid, soooo fucking stupid)…beep…(stupidly cute, what does that even mean? Did she mean I’m cute because I’m stupid or I’m stupid because I’m cute, are stupid people cute? All of them?)…beep…(damn, why didn’t she have instead of all these beeps a nice song, something I can dance on and pretend that I don’t give a crap)…beep…(who invented these phones? These annoying sounds? This whole waiting for an answer process? Who wants to wait for this?)…beep…(ok, answer, now! Or forever hold your phone in your damn purse like you always do and never hear it)…beep….
-”hello”…“hello”…“heeee-llo-ooo”…”ok, who is it?”…“is that you?”…”hey, answer me”…”ok, cough once if it’s you”
-(I cough)
-“So it’s you…I’m in town.”
-(I cough, differently)
-“Why? I had to come back.”
(Why didn’t they invent a sound for these pauses, you push a button and a melody starts, a very stupid melody that you hate, that everybody hates because the lyrics are stupid, the melody sucks but it just sticks in your head for the whole…a sticky melody is so much better than all this pressure)
-(I cough, trying to make the same sound as last time.)
-“Was that why? Well…I need something from you.”
(Or even better every number has a joke, you press a number, you hear a joke, the tension is out and you’re both laughing…just hope it’s not a baby joke…she starts crying at those)
-“I need you to forgive me.”
Hang!

supposed to not be proven

I can’t believe I’m still lying to myself that this is not how it’s supposed to be…I can’t change anything, just because I have no problem in accepting things the way they are and not trying to force myself to notice that they are not at all as I wanted them to be. It is not simple, nor complicated…it’s just real, it feels real, it acts real, it keeps me awake for real reasons, but the reasons are not even close to what real is. Sometimes you can change a story, but the characters will always remain identifiable. It’s one and another, having fears and dreams, drinking tea and chatting without saying anything, having all they want but refusing to admit it, because too good is never enough.
There is nothing that can be changed and yet, I’m speaking to myself pretending to ignore that I might just be wrong about it, about everything. What makes you certain of something? the end of the action or the purpose of it? If you want to win something you have to get in the game, and the game is not meant to be won or lost, but to be attractive enough so you can get the feeling that you know the rules. “The rules are made to be broken” they say, well…that’s just another rule, and knowing that makes it even more attractive. When it comes to the way of playing the game, it’s all about the input and the will to let go of everything you consider to be given as a fact. If you want to change something, start with ignoring the fact that only something that is broken can be fixed…cause usually the things that are good are even weaker because of the lack of attention. And yes, I know, weak doesn’t necessarily mean broken, but good doesn’t necessarily mean not broken.
I can’t believe I’m still lying to myself that this is not how it’s supposed to be… because if it’s supposed then somewhere in the middle I’ll get a hint that I just might change it by lying.

Long story short: If it’s supposed to be, try not to prove it!

inceputul sfarsitului

Ma trezisem ca visez, visez ca totul e mai altfel decat atunci cand doar zburam si imi imaginam ca o data ce imi pierd aripile imi pierd si sufletul, ca o data ce nu mai pot respira respiratia mea va fi auzita de zeii vointei si al ambitiilor platite de pedestrasi. Ma trezisem ca traiam o alta viata, ca eram prea departe de nebunie si asa nu puteam fi sacrificata drept purtatoare de pacat, nu puteam fi vazuta drept sclava atrocitatilor si a nimicurilor de dragul carora se inalta cetati si monumente demne de monede pentru care se bat orbii. Am auzit ca se poate trai din mila si atunci mi-am luat existenta drept un pact cu cel ce ofera mai mult pentru o mascarada in care se implica mai multi platitori , nu m-am gandit niciodata ca imi voi dori sa stiu mai multe decat cel ce respira un aer plin de boli. Ma trezisem visand ca poate tu, cel ce nu mai esti cine ai fost, vei privi spre ceilalti care sunt ca tine, vei privi in jur, si vei vrea sa fii din nou un altul oarecare, un altul pentru care nu isi vindeau oamenii simplitatea, un altul pentru care exista noima in anormalitate si un altul pentru care tu insuti erai predestinat sa fii exact asa cum vrei sa fii. De cand am inceput sa ne luptam pentru a piede in victorii si de cand ne-am nascut spre a procrea un adevar necunoscut, am devenit fiarele din care poate izvori doar pesimism si nicidecum facere de bine. Am ajuns sa fim oamenii altora, sa fim oamenii care isi doresc sa nu-si mai doreasca, oamenii care o data ajunsi pe lista celor nesatisfacuti am devenit de fapt ceea ce nimeni nu-si doreste sa adaposteasca sub proria religie. Ma trezisem ca visez si visam sa nu mai am ce am ca sa ma cunosc, visam sa nu mai pot avea ce am ca sa devin un altul si mai rau, sa ma cunosc din nou, sa ma cunosc asa cum sunt, fara mii de gloate care nu=mi stiu numele si care daca il vor auzi rostit se vor intreba cu ce-am gresit si ma vor pedespi pentru greselile lor. Suntem prea mult din ce-am fi putut fi, iar acel “prea” e mult pentru cine suntem. Cand se naste un adevar printre noi e ca si cum s-ar naste un ipocrit pe care putem sa-l batjocorim si pe care sa dam vina pentru necinstirea noastra, pentru ceea ce am facut si mai ales pentru ceea ce vom face.

Ca sa murim nu avem nevoie de povara vietii, ca sa murim avem nevoie de povara celorlalti, ca sa murim in pace.

despre noi prin altii

Cand incepe sa nu mai fie nimic asa cum era, e ca si cum ar incepe brusc sa dispara tot ce facea lumea sa para mai diferita decat resturile ei, decat ceea ce nu putea fi niciodata parte din intreg si niciodata lasat in urma. Cum s-ar putea ca cele mai mari suflete dintre noi sa fie si cele mai neinsemnate amintiri ale celor carora le-a curs prin vene acelasi sange sau care pur si simplu au stat de veghe langa patul care nu oferea nimic decat febra si mila. Poate ar fi mai usor daca nu ne-am mai uita in urma si am incepe totul de la inceput, dar oare e posibil sa incepi ceva ce-a fost demult construit, ce-a inceput demult sa se cantareasca cu cele pe care le-ai vrut doar de dragul posesiei, dar nu le-ai avut niciodata cu adevarat. E simplu, lucrurile cele mai minore sunt lucrurile cele mai fara de sot, cele mai paradoxale si cele mai grele de a fi ingropate printre celelalte nimicuri de care niciodata nu ne-a durut in cot. Poate sperand ca vom progresa lasam sa treaca timpul pe langa noi, poate doar pentru a putea spune ca ne traim viata pe cand doar o lasam sa ne transforme din a fi perfecti in a fi cu totul altceva. Cand vom incepe sa ne uitam spre noi ca spre singurii fauritori de noi insine atunci vom vedea ca nimic din ce ne-a fost scris si dat nu e nici pe departe adevarat, nimeni nu iti poate da si nu iti poate lua nimic ce nu vrei sa pierzi. Adevarul e ca fugim cu disperare spre culmele disperarii, crezand ca acolo e fericirea. Pana la urma nu avem noi nevoie de fericire doar pentru a realiza ca nu o meritam deloc, iar aceasta realizare e la fel de imaginara si fara sens ca si ideea de fericire in sine. Oare fericirea se poate imparti, se poate aduna intr-un pumn si arunca pe gat sa ne umplem venele cu ea, oare fericirea se vrea mancata de toti tontii care niciodata nu s-au intrebat daca vor sa fie fericiti cu adevarat. Ca toti ceilalti suntem “in” si niciodata nu ne-am dorit sa ne procuram un pic de ameteala si sa ne ducem cu ea in lume, in lumea de langa noi, in lumea din care izvorasc povesti in care-am fost dar care la momentul respectiv ne-au facut de ras pentru ca ceilalti nu ne vroiau in ele. Daca ceilalti ne-am fi tati, mame si fiice oare le-am dori la fel de mult rau? Oare chiar am ajuns sa nu ne mai vrem pe noi doar pentru a fi doriti de altii? Oare chiar am ajuns sa ne cersim existenta de la cei care daca li s-ar oferi tot nimicul ar renunta la totul?

Ca sa nu mai trebuiasca sa ne oglindim in ceilalti avem nevoie doar de imaginile lor asa cum se vad ei insisi zi de zi.

daca nu “cine” atunci tu

Si totusi, cine decide cand totul se termina, cine poate sa stie daca ce s-a creat a fost sau n-a fost, sa fie? Oamenii si-au creat reguli, majoritatea care functioneaza contra lor, doar pentru a fi linistiti ca pe langa ei vor suferi inca multi si nu vor fi ei singurii care vor realiza ca tot ce s-a terminat nu mai are decat importanta de a dovedi ce nu s-a mai stiut de ei, dar s-a stiut de toti ceilalti. Tendinta de a exagera orice stare vine din dependenta noastra de toti, de lume, de cei fara de care am fi mult mai fericiti, dar nu o stim, inca.

Cine decide cand se poate pleca, cand poti lasa lumii numai vaga amintire ca i-ai pasit pe urme fara sa-i creezi incomoditati, nu suntem in stare de defecte suntem in stare doar sa fim defecti. Sa nu ne urmarim scopurile decat daca duc la dezbinare, ori dezbinarea niciodata nu a coincis cu cunoasterea de sine, iar ca sa ajungi a te cunoaste trebuie doar sa nu mai vrei sa fii cunoscut de nimeni. Oamenii rapesc si nu mai dau inapoi, sunt hoti neprinsi, hotii care isi arunca mamele-n uitare si-si inalta adversarii la rangul de inamici.

Cine decide cand totul incepe, cine poate sa stie de unde porneste dorinta si nu mai conteaza adevarul cunoscut de toti, adevarul tuturor, adevarul de care s-au dezlegat putini, iar cei putini au putrezit pe rafturi si si-au inecat amarul in lungi pahare de tacere.

Cine decide? Tu! Dar ti-e mai simplu sa tot gasesti un “cine” care sa decida pentru tine.

ism cu tentă de real

Din când în când mă mai trezesc…nu vreau cafea, nu vreau ţigări, nu vreau sex  “de dimineaţă”, nu vreau…cred că sunt singurele momente în care nu vreau nimic…absolut nimic!Realitatea nu e deloc copleşitoare, nu-ţi trezeşte aere de poet şi nu te culcă în patul unei virgine, realitatea te face să nu mai vrei nimic. Cel ce se crede realist este o persoană cât se poate de acrită de toate lumile din jurul său. Ce e optimistul? Un realist prefăcut, un om cu prea multe şanse şi cu prea puţină venă, mai mult convinge decât face…şi atunci de ce nu e realist? pentru că trebuie doar să convingă, de ei e nevoie ca şi de protecţie contra bolilor venerice. Pesimistul? Cu siguranţă un viitor realist! şi nimicul cere a fi gândit.

nepăsare şi doare

Orice mişcare a ta face cât zece pumni beţivi în dosul străzii. Te chinui să-ţi ataci neputinţa, însă sunt mulţi paşii care duc la satisfacţie sau cel puţin la zâmbet naiv de victorie. Te pomeneşti că ai scăpat de vină, că mai ai puţin şi-ţi depăşeşti limitele, că eşti aproape conectat întregii lumi prin vibraţiile ideilor tale inovatoare şi apoi te trezeşti confuz într-un pat, mahmur de-atatâtea idei şi obosit de atâta aer nociv. Nimic nu e schimbat, încercările tale sunt la fel ca paşii unui copil, indecişi şi necontrolaţi. Dacă ar fi să alegi între a aduna ce mai poţi, a băga în valiza conştientizării sau a lăsa naibii întregul existenţialism, ai alege mai degrabă să-ţi îneci amarul în mustul nepăsării şi să crezi că mâine vei fi un alt om, un adevărat român.

viitor cu iz de “pute”

Viitorul are un gust de lapte stricat de-ţi întoarce stomacul pe dos, de-ţi sugrumă orice tendinţă de a mai arăta cu degetul, de a mai scuipa cu argumente, de a mai lovi cu dreptate până la spargere de capete.

Prostia nu doare, nu doare deloc, prostia ridică părul, umfla vene şi sparge nasuri. Dacă prostia ar durea ar însemna că suntem bolnavi de ea, că ne putem lecui…a încerca să te tratezi de prostie e ca şi cum ai încerca să-ţi schimbi natura şi să devii din nou maimuţă, să iei darvinismul de picioare şi să-l târăşti afară din peşteră, să-l iei mot-a-mot şi să-ţi mai implantezi un creier.

Viitorul miroase a parfum de piaţă împărţit din abundenţă peste toată transpiraţia naţiunii.

cu toţii sau nimic

Nimicul meu, nimicul tău şi paralelismul dintre noi ce provoacă dezastre minore, ce schimbă căi şi depărtează dinstanţe. Pustietatea unei noi revederi, când tot ce putea fi scris într-o carte nu mai poate fi reprodus decât schiţând un gest într-o pauză de idei.

Pluteşte spre nori captivitatea în care trăim, ne redresăm vorbind şi totuşi…parcă verbal totul pare aberant de sec şi totuşi…necesar descoperirii de imagini prin care ne putem dresa temperamentele sau redresa omogenitatea.

Bunăoară puteam visa cu toţii, acum ne-ascundem de dureri şi ne prefacem că suferim în continuare.

unu, doi, zece…Hai!

Mi-am amintit de tine când aveam nevoie să găsesc ceva care să mă facă să schiţez un zâmbet cât se poate de caraghios. Îmi mestec mâncarea ca pe venin şi nu-mi cade bine deloc să mă prefac fericită. Încep să fiu ca toţi ceilalţi, să-mi pese doar de manechinele din vitrină şi de câte terfe pot arunca de pe mine ca să ajung la limita obscenului.

Îmi pare rău, nu poţi să absorbi toată prostia şi să nu te aştepţi să explodezi molipsind şi cea mai nevinovată potaie cu crima neputinţei şi ignoranţei tale. Îţi ofer microfonul, poţi începe…Hai! plânge-te de toate bolile minţii tale, de toată durerea nepăsării celor ce-ţi pupau picioarele pentru un colţ de canapea şi o duşcă, de anormalitatea lumii care ţi-a spulberat toate aşteptările de glorie şi fanatism, de înjosirile la care-ai fost supus pentru a ajunge să ai ce credeai că vrei, de crimele pe care le-ai comis de dragul desfătării şi egoismului rataţilor, de bisexualitatea ta trupească şi de nopţi fără amintiri, de pustietatea de după şi de extazul dinainte…plânge-te de cum ai visat să ajungi mare şi ai ajuns mai mic decât erai pe-atunci.

Divinitate fără gust

Astăzi lumea îți zâmbește, mâine te trimite dracului…astăzi îți cântă serenade, mâine te bagă-n oala decăzuților, astăzi îți face cinste, mâine te trimite la cerșit. Lumea nu te iartă niciodată, față de ea și cea mai mică greșeală e cât un pumn în față, cel mai mic gest de ipocrizie e cât o întreagă piesă de teatru jucată prost. Acoperit de lume te simți jignit, sufocarea ei nu te lasă să te descoperi…ea te vrea așa cum vrea ea să fii, fiind tu insuți ești bătut în cuie și trimis surorii sale, uitării. Uitat de lume, mereu sihastru, cauți iertare divină  neștiind că însăși divinitatea e cea ce se supune lumii. Dacă nu se supunea mai ajungea să fie atât de fără gust?

Să-i dăm să pută

Zilele trecute am găsit o veche agendă de-a mea la finalul căreia era un început de sondaj de prin anii liceului, pe care aș vrea să îl cotinui cu ajutorul vostru…așa că să-i dăm să pută (cum zic unii)

Ce vă face să vă simțiți vii?

astea-s răspunsurile pe care le-am primit până acum:

Sexul (evident)

Dragostea

Să mă ciupească cineva (de unde?)

Un cățel de usturoi sau un ardei iute

Adrenalina

Mahmureala

O palmă din suflet

… (aștept cu mare drag răspunsurile voastre cu ajutorul cărora voi scrie un post pentru toți cei care știu că atunci când se împute treaba … don’t run Forest, just say cheers!) Cheers!

cu muci la nas și flori în păr

Respir greu și am impresia că urc un  munte prea mare, prea colțuros…e un drum de care nu sunt deloc pregătită. Mi-e plin rucsacul cu lucruri imbecile, spumă de păr, lamă de ras, ulei de corp, o carte pe care nu vreau să o citesc, două agende - ambele pline de dorul meu, șosete curate (vreo cinci bucăți), haine cât cuprinde…nu de alta, dar poate așa printre mii de copaci, animale sălbatice și nici zare de om îmi voi întâlni ursitul și clar e prea importantă întâlnirea pentru a nu fi pregătită cum se cade la noi, cu hainele de dumincă, proaspăt spălată la sub braț și cu flori în păr și pe lângă miile de creme și țoale de prisos nu am nimic de mâncare, nu am lanternă, am tutun, foițe, roller și nu am foc, noroc că am prosop, n-ar fi frumos să mă șterg în mijlocul pustietății cu o șosetă pe la nas…și dacă îmi curg mucii nu e pentru că am răcit sau ceva, e pentru că încă refuz să-i șterg.

Soare cu gust de sare

Este crunt când realizezi că lumea nu e deloc așa cum o vezi tu sau cum ai vrea să fie, lumea e atât de nebună încât nebunia ei pătează conștiințe și presară sare pe răni care încep să nu mai doară amintindu-ți că nu ai voie să nu simți, că nu ai voie să stai pe bănci și să visezi la ploi cu soare.

Când începi să te miști după o amorțeală trasă din matcă ai impresia că nu știi nimic, iar nimicul tău valorează cât un ban în punga cerșetorului.Să nu crezi că ai scăpat de pedepse doar pentru că ai început să faci, în lumea asta nimeni nu are nevoie de asimilați de dragul liniștii sufletești, te vor plin de sudoare, cu răni sub braț și  lipsit de momente care-ți vor aminti că o dată și o dată credeai în mitul lumii ca un loc predestinat.

În diminețile cu soare să nu uiți că pe sub pleoapele lumii se adună picăturile care-ți vor inunda chipul atunci când vei invăța să nu mai clipești.

miros de nu te pot uita

Ce nu poti uita niciodata e mirosul…mirosul iubirii, mirosul care te trezeste din somn si te face sa nu mai vrei sa adormi, acel miros a o mie de imbratisari sub plapuma si a o mie de saruturi pe minut sub aceeasi plapuma, mirosul tuturor certurilor de dragul tiparirii amintirilor, mirosul diminetilor in care eu radeam si el radea, in care eu ma vedeam in el si el ma vedea asa cum sunt, mirosul de “acasa” oricunde…in pat, sub pat, pe strada, deasupra ei.

Ce nu poti uita niciodata e mirosul fericirii, mirosul lumii din care nu mai vrei sa iesi pentru ca in lumea de afara nimic nu miroase la fel.

minte-te frumos

Incet ajungem sa fim cine suntem…prin depresii, prin dezamagiri, prin taclale de dragul ritmului, avem mereu nevoie sa ne simtim…sa ne simtim jegos de puri.

Ajungem sa ne rugam de ceilalti sa ne justifice greselile prin greselile lor, multe si de bun gust…nu vrem sa parem lipsiti de originalitate, ce altceva ne-ar mai tine legati de mese si batai pentru recunoastere?

Incet ajungem sa ne iubim in mizeria noastra, doar pentru ca o impartim cu toti…chiar daca ne mintim ca a noastra pute mai bine.

mutenie cu ochii deschisi

Nu cred ca ar trebui sa urli, vointa nu se naste din lipsa de oxigen ci din surplusul acestuia. Nu cred ca ai simtit vreodata mila de sine care te face sa vrei sa capeti puteri supranaturale si sa dispari, de tot, pentru totdeauna. Omul care vrea sa creasca nu striga, nu isi sparge plamanii si-i umple cu sange ci vorbeste atat de incet incat poate fi banuit de mutenie.

Mutenia nu te face invizibil, mutenia iti face cute si riduri, iti traduce lumea si-ti deschide ochii. Cuvintele nu sunt salvatoare, de cele mai multe ori sunt doar dovezi ale tristetii lumii pe care-o credeai mereu petrecand.

mâna de pe ochi ce-astupă gura

Dezbinîndu-se în două îşi căuta pulsul cu lumânarea abia arzând şi cu o foame diabolică de răspunsuri.

Atunci când cauţi adevăr vei găsi doar metafore şi multă otravă. De unde venim noi, umbrele au creat oamenii, iar oamenii le-au transformat în incertitudini şi a început să le fie frică de origini.

Amănuntele despicării sunt neimportante atunci când creaţia a fost zămislită cu prea multă binecuvântare şi prea puţin patos.

Răspunsurile nu succed întrebările, întrebările se nasc din răspunsuri pe care nu le înţelegem. Nu întreba dacă nu vrei să ştii, căci să cunoşti înseamnă să vezi, ori suntem născuţi orbi, pentru a muri muţi.

tăcerea podelelor

Ne plângem tristeţea ca şi cum tot ce mai contează s-a transformat în jurăminte fără de care respirăm uşuraţi. Suntem zdrobiţi, iar cărţile fortunei ne arată că până aici am fost doar minţiţi, că doar de acum încolo vom putea fi mituiţi ca să ne lăsăm de fiinţa noastră. Suntem fatalişti când vine vorba de dăruinţă şi cinici când vine vorba de aduceri aminte.

Ne plângem de prea mult ghinion, când de dramatism ni se usucă buzele şi ne bate sufletul la porţile necuraţilor. E uşor să vrei şi mult prea greu să le vrei altora…iar când ajungi să nu mai ai începi să dăruieşti din tot ce ţi-a rămas.

Ne ştergem nasul de podele, iar ele ne ascund păcatele şi ruşinea prin a lor tăcere.

mulţi…şi-atât!

Trec secole şi minutele par să nu se mai oprească, lumea-şi caută jumătăţile, iar jumătăţile îşi caută timpul pierdut, nebunia îşi îmbracă trupul o dată cu căderea ninsorii iar frigul îşi dezgheaţă degetele cântând la strunele redevenirii.

Se nasc noi şi noi pasiuni, iar cele mai vechi îşi aruncă copiii de pe blocuri căutând să nu mai poată retrăi scenarii rescrise pentru alte generaţii de mincinoşi.

Dacă am putea rescrie istoria am decapita adevăratele nimicuri care contau şi le-am păstra drept trofee ale neputinţei noastre şi ale orgoliului născut pentru a nu muri niciodată.

Prea mulţi scriu şi prea puţini cred, prea mulţi visează…şi-atât!

fost-am orb cu punga-n cap

E ca şi cum a revenit magia, momentele în care mă regăsesc ca fiind din nou făcută să nu-mi mai regret greşelile, să nu-mi mai bag capul în pungă şi să urlu c-am orbit, să-mi bag în pungă regretele pe care mi le-am născocit şi să le dau foc cu tot cu pene de papagal.

E ca şi cum dacă speram să ard sub priviri înţepătoare de delicvenţi fără formă aş fi ajuns să cred că tot ce m-a durut a ajuns chiar să conteze, dar am sperat să simt cum ape-mi spală faţa în timp ce nu mai dorm şi am ajuns să cred că tot ce m-a durut a fost să fie…şi-atât!

evit ca să nu scap

Nu mă mai compara cu morții tăi, cu iluziile credinței tale, cu decapitații greșelilor altora, cu patrioții inexistenței, cu fanaticii decăderilor în faimă, cu martirii timpurilor necunoscute, cu toți nebunii care i-au dat viață lumii; nu mă învăța să cedez sclaviei când singura scăpare e paralelismul valorilor, nu mă învăța să caut iertare de la cei cărora le tremură genunchii în fața morții, nu mă învăța cum să degradez, nu am destulă umilință în mine.

Nu mă mai asculta, dacă vrei să te auzi doar pe tine, ca și tine eu încă respir, ca și tine încă sper, ca și tine, ca și ceilalți, îmi sap mai multe gropi evitând căderea.

dansând pe paşi de-apocalipsă

Trecem de momente grele şi după începem să ne răzbunăm pe lume, pentru că ne-a călcat în picioare, pentru că nu ne-a iubit pe cât am meritat, pentru că ne-a scos goi în pieţe publice şi ne-a umblut de scuipatul nefericiţilor de care nu ne ştergem decât devenind nefericiţi, de parcă ea ar fi de vină. De parcă ea ne-a turnat în pahare şi ne-a băgat pe gât ruşine, de parcă ea ne-a trezit din somn şi ne-a dus la teatru de smintiţi, de parcă ea ne-a insuflat păcate de care nici mamele nu ne-ar ierta, de parcă ea a fost cea care ne-a lăsat să credem că minţindu-ne şi minţind vom fi ridicaţi în slăvi.

Cand lumea moare de frică simţindu-şi pierzania, noi ne dansăm consoartele şi ne dorim să se oprească o dată apocalipsa asta din care nu ai cum să ieşi dansând.

de ce? niciodată

Sunt lucruri pe care nu le vom înţelege niciodată…de ce e soare cand ne-am pregătit să zburăm printre nori, de ce cad stele cand nu avem nici o dorinţă decât să nu mai trebuiască să gândim, de ce se stinge lumina pe stradă când încă e intuneric, de ce bat clopotele exact cand ţi-ai aprins ţigara citind despre orgii, de ce îţi doreşti ce n-ai şi cand ai nu mai vrei să ai până mori şi încă vreo 3 vieţi după aia, de ce când nu mai poţi respira ţi se fluieră startul, de ce nu ai reuşit niciodată să ai mai mult decât şi-au dorit alţii pentru tine, de ce nu ai putut să apreciezi ce aveai până n-ai mai avut cu toate c-ai mai vrut, ai vrut…, de ce e frig atunci când nu mai ai lemne, iar pătura i-ai dat-o unui trecător cu barbă şi cu mult mai multe zâmbete în pungă decât tine, de ce e dulce apa cand vrei să-ţi bei amarul, de ce de ieri pâna azi s-au schimbat atâtea, şi nu s-a schimbat nimic, de ce ţi-e frică de singuratate…oare eşti chiar atât de plictisitor?, de ce întrebi “de ce” când ştii raspunsuile toate, de ce iti pui şosetele pe scaun doar ca să vezi daca le pune cineva la loc, de ce ai spus ca pleci şi a plouat…?

Sunt lucruri pe care nu le vom intelege niciodată, dar vrem cu disperare să le ocolim.

ploaie spalatoare de pacate

A rasarit din senin…asa cum apare un nor si iti invadeaza toata camera cu ploaia pe care o aduce de incep sa-ti pulteasca caietele in care aveai scrise scrisori inca netrimise, cartile pe care nu le-ai citit dar de care erai mandra sa le ai pe raft, hainele pe care le imbraci in fiecare zi si te dezbraci de ele pentru ca parca ceva lipseste, cutia cu amintiri in care ai adunate toate hartiutele, nasturii si pliculetele de zahar pe care le-ai furat de prin bodegi si avioane, iti pluteste patul pe care nu mai vrei sa dormi decat sufocata de mainile masive ale unui imaginar prieten ce-ti tine de clad si dispare cum intra lumina pe geam…geamul care e deja plin de picuri, care se scurg parca intrecandu-se care ajunge primul pe pervaz pentru a se opri in lumanarile topite de soare, soarele care nu mai apare decat atunci cand stii ca numai el te poate salva de tineretile tale care te-au facut sa pierzi atatea cuvinte de care ti-ar fi fost dor daca erau rostite.

A venit cand ma asteptam cel mai mult si nu ma asteptam deloc, cand tot ce mai conta e sa ma urc in masina si sa conduc pana nu mai ajung nicaieri, caci acolo nimeni nu-ti blocheaza rotile si-ti da amenda pentru ca ai parcat pe trotuarul pe care nu trece nimeni, dar poate poate intr-o zi oarecare va trece un necinstit pentru ca si-a uitat, nevrand sa-si aminteasca, drumul acasa.

A aparut asa cum apar doar lucrurile bune…din senin, aducand o ploaie care te spala de pacate.

(pentru L. cu drag)

fericire cu viaţa-n spate

Acum sunt fericită…am dat de mine căutând pierzanie. Aşa se-ntâmplă de obicei, cauţi iertare şi găseşti răsplată. Mă simt mai bine fiind eu insămi, tu cum te simţi, călăreţ decapitat?
Fericirea e un repaos al sufletului, nu durează mult, ar fi culmea să trăim o viata de fericire continuă, cine-ar mai vrea sa moară, cu ce va respira moartea în lipsă de sinucigaşi? Fericirea este sentimentul de integru, curat, normal, simplu si linişte, linişte în tine, mult spaţiu, anume în acea imensitate îşi lasă rădăcinile nefericirea ca să te trezească pe când înnebuneşti de tot.

Mi-e greu să-mi recunosc greşelile, n-aş vrea să îmi pierd timpul în faţa altarului mărturisind, pe când în spate urlă viaţa dupa mine.

cauze ascunse

M-am săturat să mă prefac, nu sunt făcută ca să ţin săbii, dar nici nu le ascund sub duşumea. Nu-mi stă în fire să cer, decât celor care s-au săturat să ceară milă, căci poţi să dai doar când ai scăpat de povara neajunsului.
Nu caut ca să găsesc, caut ca să descopăr…ca să poţi găsi ai nevoie de paşi, ca să descoperi ai nevoie să nu mai calci pe paşii altora.

Nu trebuie mereu să te aperi…lumea nu a fost creată ca să te dărâme. Nu-i mai inventa defecte doar pentru că ai devenit imun la frumuseţe.

Dacă te-ai împăcat cu ideea de destin predestinat, la ce te mai aştepţi?

fără sens cu patos

M-am scufundat în tăcerea unei suferinţe, mi-am distrus fermitatea într-un apogeu de instabilitate, am strigat spre ceruri şi am greşit crezând în întuneric. Strunele-mi sunau în urechi, aveam impresia că visam, că mă confrunt cu dispariţia; în care bătălie a câştigat necredinciosul?
Migram într-o sonoritate spre acele clopote ce-ţi macină gândirea, ce-ţi cântă decadenţa, ce-ţi suflă-n gând să taci o dată.
Căutam la nesfârşit o abatere, un ritm imprefect, o nălucire de o distrusă capodoperă, un refugiu din mine spre mine însămi.
Oamenii din jurul meu vor să fie comici, să facă lumea să râdă…ce jalnici mi se par atunci când fumând o ţigară privesc fumul, analizează imagini haotice, se cred de nimic…măcar în acel moment au reuşit să se compare.
Auzeam undeva o odă veche, atât de palidă, atât de pură, calustrofobă într-un spaţiu infinit.
Dac-am privi fiinţa ca pe un produs religios, am realiza că suntem înconjuraţi de anticrişti…alege-ţi unul şi visează.

Şi citea…printre rânduri îi apăreau demonii incurabili ai timpului, o mistuiau acele amănunte, în imaginile din mintea ei nu se găsea nici una să se asemene cărţii pe care o recitea după atâtea generaţii care nu au gândit la fel dar s-au ascuns după mândrie.

Bătuţi în cap…de ploaie

E nevoie oare de pedepse ca să ne simţim conştienţi de pierderile pe care le-am creat ezitând? E nevoie oare de patimile celor cu care ne petrecem vieţile pentru a ne simţi mai legaţi de propriile fiinţe? E nevoie oare de de parul pedepsitor pentru a ne dori să stagnăm de dragul recreerii mintale, care ne poate duce la lumină, chiar daca de bec şi fără colaci cu sare? De unde atâta lipsă de interes acolo unde s-a născut curiozitatea, iar scepticismul a fost îndepărtat de la sânul îndoielii pentru a fi crescut cu har într-o tihnă apăsătoare?

Când ne va trece durerea de oase vom visa la alte boli care să ne pedepsească pentru fericirea de care nu suntem conştienţi.
De mâine va ploua cu pietre…să nu uităm să ne scoatem capetele pe ferestre.

perversitate la dozator

Nu m-am gândit niciodată că se poate trăi într-o perversitate atât de evidentă şi bine închegată, fără conştientizarea acesteia. E ca şi cum am păşi pe natura noastră şi am nega cu ferocitate sensibilitatea tălpilor; e ca şi cum am fugi de plasticitate doar pentru a ne simţi mereu urmăriţi de aceasta, evident petru sentimentul călduţ de siguranţă şi puritate datorat negandirii.
Negăm şi cea mai mică pată, căci (nesimţita) ne duce cu gândul la stricăciune, ori nu poţi fi bolnav de patos şi senin când vine vorba de abţineri condiţionate.

Suntem mânaţi de animalice dorinţi, dar ne opreşte un amalgam de chipuri care vor strâmba din nas.

Stupid, with benefits

Why do people say things they don’t know anything about? Why can’t they just say “i don’t know”? Is being honest worse than being stupid? It’s like we’re all children and parents at the same time: when we ask we need an answer, but the “parent” (friend, colleague, boyfriend, neighbour, some chick at the bar, some dude in ladies room, you…etc) doesn’t understand that we don’t just need an answer, we need the right one, the one that we can pack in our backpack and take it out when we meet other children asking nonsense questions like: “why are people so superficial?” Where comes this need to know everything, or even more precise, where comes this fear of being stupid? aren’t we all stupid in a way or another, or just in a way? I do realize how stupid I’m every day, mostly in those moments when my head is about to explode because i think about something so complicated and try to make it even more complicated, because it’s never too simple, too simple is not enough, i need brain pain, i need disaster, i need fireworks and battles for something unknown, i need depressions, a feast full of pills, i need everything that will make the pink become a myth, and then someone comes and give you the most simple answer you could ever think of like “people are not superficial, they just don’t fit” and here you go, boom! the big advertising sign rises, looking like a 24 hours open streeptease bar, full of bright colors, all different kind and sizes, the big sign that says :STUPID! and it’s followed by a victory song you always hear at the end of the movie, when the guy saves the girl and they kiss like they have no f. idea how to kiss.
So…anyway…i started to say “i don’t know”, and now i see the big sign almost everyday…i guess you could say I’m into honesty, but no…I’m just doing it for the colorful big kitschy sign…ooooor I’m just into streeptease…haven’t decided yet.

Hawaii or divorce?!

The evolution of society can be described as the diversification of choices…now we have too many and we really suck at deciding. I mean imagine this situation, in which i bet all of us find ourselves from time to time, you’re hungry, starving, your stomach sounds like a tractor which got the wrong gas, and you decide to go to the restaurant. You can’t wait to find the perfect table, not too close to the middle but with a view angle other everything what’s going on around (in case you see something that needs to be deeply analyzed, like a nice dress or a good piece of ass). You find it, you sit, good chairs, comfortable and clean, not too comfortable, you don’t want to get a massage or to meditate, you want to eat and fast. The waiter comes, smiling, with the perfect haircut, like you care about it, but it looks good anyway. So…he gives you the MENU, the thing you expected to hold for a very long time, you want to look through it and to pick the perfect meal, because you kind of already have the taste in your mouth, but you just need the menu to help you guess what taste is it. He asks you if you want something to drink first, smiling like you just showed him a boob or something. You quickly decide to take a beer, it’s always good for waiting. You finally get to open it, you see PIZZA pg. 15…”yeah, pizza will be great!”, you think and you start to feel the taste of pizza in your mouth, it’s there, you just need to find the perfect one. You turn desperately to page 15, and here it is, THE pizza list, which has 30 something different pizza in it, with everything you want, but on different pizzas. OK, let’s see, maybe you can find the one. NO, you can’t, they all “sound” good, they all “sound” like you could go for it, but there is always something missing…i mean, you need the one, the perfect one, that has everything you want, everything you need and you definitely don’t want to settle for something that will make you full, but unsatisfied. You turn the page…all those Italian names make you even more confused…Then the waiter comes with the beer, smiling like he drank two of those before, and of course asking you if you are ready to order. “no, not yet” you’re only at the fifth one.
The sad annoying thing – everyone around you is eating, they are all happy, happy and about to be full and you’re about to get drunk. You think “just don’t look up” cause if you meet the sight of the waiter he’s gonna think you decided and he’s gonna come to ask and you don’t even know which one you want and maybe you don’t even want pizza, what’s so special about it? ten different kind of chicken sounds good as well and the salads, the twelve different kinds of salads and you know, pasta is always a savior…”why didn’t I invite someone with me, he/she would’ve help me decide, or just erase one of the 30 something choices, it helps, sometimes”. Then, out of the sudden, without any eye contact or whistle or finger snap or a “hey there!!!” or whatever makes them approach, he comes, smiling like he just got out of jail, asking if you are ready, like you’re about to get married or something; and then you hear yourself saying “yes, a pizza Hawaii please”. He looks happy, you look confused – it does look like a marriage proposal, and the haircut fits perfectly. The starvation and the picking are officially over, you ‘re about to get fully satisfied…because you can never go wrong with picking Hawaii, especially when you’re about to get married.

….after 5 minutes…”Sorry, but we don’t have all the ingredients for Hawaii, would you like to order another one?”
…after 5 min 30 seconds…divorced!

to eat or not to think?

-Stop! take a deep breath and just stop…stop thinking…does it hurt? do you feel useless? are your feet getting numb? do you feel a small pain in your brain? are there butterflies all over your stomach? do you feel like running, again and again, from the same mistakes they did, he did, she did, we did…you did, knowing that you can’t go back? do you feel like running from happiness just because you can’t take it, because it hurts too much to live in fear? do you feel hunger..for passion, suffering, pity, shrimps? do you feel like getting high and catch a cold just because you forgot that your feet are attached to you? do you feel like taking a shower or brush your teeth or pee…right now? do you feel that you need more time, even if it doesn’t come in dozes? do you feel like smelling her hair…just to remember when everything else will smell like shit? do you still want to take that trip, where everyone goes just because everyone goes? do you still need to prove your parents that they know nothing of you, when you know nothing of them? do you still believe in God, just because you heard it helps? do you feel the need to decide your future, even if you know for sure that you can die anytime? do you feel like crying, even if no one will know about it? do you want kids, even if they’re going to hate you for wanting what’s best for them? do you want to scream, just because you need attention? do you feel like yourself, after all this years of doing nothing? do you need to fake it, because you feel pity? do you? do you? can you?
-Can I what? what?
-Stop?
-What?
-Stop!
-I can’t!
-Why?
-I can’t!
-Why?
-I don’t want to.
-Why?
-I can’t!
-Why?
-Stop!
-What?
-Making me think!
-Why?
-Because it hurts………………jvbab”ia4ug#oiu!0bl(cjb>OU……………..I’m hungry.