Anticarul sau existenţa rătăcită a Universului

            Colectionez vieti. Pe unele le tin pentru mine si le rasfoiesc din cand in cand. Pe altele, risipite, pierdute sau disipate in oceanul tristetii si al nemilosului, le tintuiec cu un blod de tavanul casei si le urmaresc privindu-ma, iar ele ma privesc urmarindu-le, pana ce sunt absorbite.

            Si colectia se mareste pe zi ce trece. Nu mai stiu cu siguranta care dintre ele sunt ale mele si care nu, dar gasesc usor a-mi insusi pe oricare, caci nu-mi pot aminti care imi este forma. Nici interiorul nu mi-l pot deslusi intodeauna, dar traiesc cu certitudinea ca el este undeva acolo. Imi simt sufletul viu mort de secole. O viata azi, maine una si ma pierd fara de stire, ma ratacesc printre iluzii, stanci si bolte innegurate.

           Ar trebui, poate, sa-mi deschid un anticariat si sa restitui filele existentelor ratacite proprietarilor de drept. Sau o bi(bli)oteca. O biblioteca ar fi mai de folos, zic. Asa, oricine ar avea sansa sa evadeze, sa piara, sa iasa din vartejul existentei, chiar si pentru o scurta perioada de timp.

            Se impun, desigur, niste reguli, caci nu as vrea sa risc sa pierd aceasta bucurie de a ma rataci printre amintiri, de a ma cauta si a nu ma gasi. Asadar, nimeni nu va putea sa imprumute mai mult de 3 vieti, iar termenul de restituire va fi setat la doua saptamani dupa data imprumutarii.

            Astfel, voi putea in continuare sa ma inzapezesc, fara a cere acordul nimanui, in oricare dintre aceste vieti luate cu egoism, gasite abandonate sau chiar oferite de niste propretari a caror dorinta de evaporare a devenit remarcabila. Insistenta si cu gust amar de ciocolata, cu o viziune a viitorului mai stearsa, neclara si mai ravnita ca oricand.

            Iar eu raman cu propriu-mi univers, ce isi sustrage nimicul din viata si viata din nimic. Isi leapada conturul, caci simte ca eu sunt la margine, gata sa il strapung si nu vrea sa ma piarda de tot. Ma detasez cu usurinta si ma tine aproape, privindu-ma atent cum le traiesc vietile si o uit pe a mea. Imi gasesc o lume paralela, necreata inca, si ma mut acolo cu totul, si devin una cu nimeni si imi place sa nu fiu.

Some sort of nothing

 

I don't know what to do with myself.

I just sit here, thinking about where I should be going, what I should be saying, hoping. Thinking about what I should be thinking. And I can find no answer.

Move your arm like that, spin your head like this, smile a little so they don't think you're awkward, don't smile too much 'cause they will see it isn't for real and they will know it's not you under there. Robotic moves I make don't make me a robot. They don't make someone else out of me; they don't make me either.

I stare out the window without seeing a thing. I don't stare out the window anymore 'cause I don't want to see things.

I talk. I don't feel like talking. Why do I talk?

I just sit there, somehow separate from myself. Just dust and nothing more. Pointless. And closer means further, so much further.

I  just sit here, doing too much without doing anything.

And I don't know what to do with myself.

 

I plan on reading it.

“Don't be amazed if you see my eyes always wandering. In fact, this is my way of reading, and it is only in this way that reading proves fruitful to me. If a book truly interests me, I cannot follow it for more than a few lines before my mind, having seized on a thought that the text suggests to it, or a feeling, or a question, or an image, goes off on a tangent and springs from thought to thought, from image to image, in an itinerary of reasonings and fantasies that I feel the need to pursue to the end, moving away from the book until I have lost sight of it. The stimulus of reading is indispensable to me, and of meaty reading, even if, of every book, I manage to read no more than a few pages. But those few pages already enclose for me whole universes, which I can never exhaust.” 

                    Italo Calvino, If on a Winter's Night a Traveler

Cosmic

 It looks as if infinity is there with you, right under your breath.
 'Cause there's steam coming out your nostrils and there's a whole world out there. And it might wonder what it's all about. And you're the only one who'll know. It's there! It surrounds you! It tickles your body, it seizes your spirit! You struggle in this arousing pain and the feverish torment feels like heaven! And there's only you, covered in stars and lights and dreams.

 Don't do it! Don't you dare hold your breath! Promise me you'll inspire your Universe forever!

Dubios.

Sunt ca un pumnal înfipt cu precizie în stomac, sunt ca o înţepătură de albină. În talpă. Sunt ca o gură zdravănă de nisip, ca un ceas defect, dar care încă ticăie. Degeaba.

Where do I belong?

"Where is it that I am now?
Where do I belong?

I carve away a niche with this rusty, broken blade,
But my hands are tired,
Riddled with cuts. 
My fingers are weary, 
Distorted with the effort of chipping away
At an indestructible stone.

Words won't do...

      Somewhere, far away,  there lies a soul. A soul which is only known to a few. And what I mean is, to a nearly insignificant number. There are these two people (or maybe they aren’t, on second thoughts) and there’s this guy, also... and oh! there’s me. I’m not overstating. Trust me, I’m not. And I have plenty evidence to prove it, that I won’t use, of course, `cause there’s simply no need, or time, or point in doing so.

Fall's here, so...how about some summer?

     Afară e urât şi plouă. Nori grei ni se adună deasupra capului şi ne înceţoşează privirea. Ne-ngheaţă degetele şi ne frecăm palmele în speranţa că vom reuşi să le incălzim câtuşi de puţin...Si eu incă stau cu gandul la vacanţa de vară. 

    Nu vă faceţi impresia greşită cum că aceasta e o postare depresiv-tomnatică. Nici vorbă! E doar un petic de melancolie, o mână rămasă întinsă, care încearcă, încă, să recupereze măcar o frântură din sezonul cald.

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