Rataciri

Iubitului meu de niciodata,

Si daca tot ratacesc as vrea sa ratacesc cu tine.
Sa ne pierdem prin fiecare colt de nicaieri, sa ne trezim la fel de ametiti si la fel de indragostiti de iluzia asta. Sa te impiedici de fiecare treapta dar cumva sa stii ca singurul lucrul care va durea va fi faptul ca mi-ai dat drumul la mana.
Sa ma saruti pe tample de fiecare data cand simti nevoia sa ma protejezi.
Sa ma imbratisezi la capatul lumii de parca noi am fi creatorii inceputului.
Sa iti doresti ca norii sa acopere soarele indelung incat sa nu mai apara razele plecarii mele.
Sa iti iei ramas bun de la o iubire mica pastrata de oameni mari.
Sa iti fiu tie elan azi si pentru totdeauna.

The Bird

I lived only for you she said, once upon a time when the skies were building up to swallow the moon, as the lovers from the moon, the first lovers in the world, decided to destroy each other as their love was more than they can take.

We are in a war. A never ending war of You and I and Us. The art of war is forgetting that there is a love as deep that can cover the whole skies in rhythms of melancholy and blues.
Let's dance he says, then he steps on her foot and she cries. He apologises for his clumsiness grabs her hand and asks her to marry him. Only spiritually as he will take her to a a place covered where they can read poetry from another world through binoculars and sip on the most renowned wines straight from Dyonysus's orchards.
She cries even more as his image fades away. It was just her imagination.  He was the potential of a man and she was the potential of a lover. Of a bird straight out of an old magazine that wanted for someone to simply swipe the dust of her feathers.

The bird grew old and nobody dared to open the book. Nobody wanted to see a dusty bird that would chant about poetry while saying that she forgot how to dance.
Until one day...The owner of a rabbit thought he should start a magazine collection. So he looked at this one magazine covered in dust, broken and torn on the edges but as bright as ever. The book would stay on his shelf and as the sun shined it's colours shined even brighter. He was looking at the bird every day and the bird was somehow changing.
He got inspired, he even did a magazine gallery that everyone attended to.
One day he made a collage with birds and there She was. Euphoria he called her.

Featherless or not, it's simple, take the dust off whatever dreams you have and chase them. Whatever shadows will follow they will surely be scared of how bright your life path will become.

Boxes and magazine pages don't mean containment ---
--- They are simply birds that will inspire you once you release the dream, they will also be free in your imagination.

Transitory Hope/ Stardust

There is more to me
There was more to us
We are in a dream
Of rubble and of fuss
Always transitory
Like any earthly joy
You are my highway
And I am your
Emotional territory
And your river
Don't float too far my love
It's way too dark
There's too much smoke
And not a spark
Don't melt in my arms
As I can not clean
My sympathetic smile
And this ethereal dream.
I have no trust
I have no other
You are me
I am your double.

Every dream I have had lately presents me with unexplored territories of your imagination. Where your dream ends mine begins very abrupt like a water that is out of control. I dismantle images with every change and create musical notes from them. I recreate joy and passion and simply swim through it so at the end of all this troublesome dream I wake up lonelier than at first. I wake up with symptoms of Amy, Charles, Edwards, Catherine and all of these people I never meet. One day I woke up with a key that opened up paths to the gateway of cloud zebra. Nobody to be found there. Just dyonisiac music and people with a lot of imagination, which for most people is nothing.

But here there are people like you and me. They breathe through music and dissolve through every single note into something more magical which is truly ineffable. There only wish is just like our own. To change the world. Paint it into something different through sound and images that only the most vivid imagination can create. It seems centuries away but in this dream, in this book, it's possible. It's alive and it has a heart. I water it using only stardust and hope for it to shine one day.

Until then goodbye my dreamers.

Shadow Syndrome -> London Calling

Your hands so torn
Tearful joy and a storm of wine
Remain with me
To where we're not
I am the thirst
Have you forgot?

Euphoria
How have you been
Let's make new words
Burn them with our shadows
Like Arrows
We will break ourselves apart
Two souls
Into one leafy dramatic part.

Acolo.

Acolo unde ma uiti,
Acolo unde ma asculti,
Acolo unde ma vezi,
Acolo unde undele sunt ale noastre,
Acolo unde nu-mi esti,
Acolo unde ma lasi,
Acolo unde imi scapi,
Acolo unde ma scrii.

In fiecare zi personajul trecea prin mai multe cercuri * dupa posibilitati de fum, oceaniace, transparente, imaginare. E ca si cum naiv ramasese in sertarul tau cu parfum si cu deschizatoarul de suflet. Acolo unde primul ramas bun ramasese prins printre ruinele lui Septembrie. Invizibil. Indivizibil. Emotie. Contrast. Un vis al nimanui. Ea printre oameni. El abisal. Am sa te scriu pana te gasesc. Am sa iti caut fiecare umbra prin fiecare rand si vei fi tu. Nu voi fi acolo. Nu am fost niciodata. Nu ai scris niciodata despre mine. Idea de a fi eu e aceeasi idealizare. Ani. Noi. Ramai cu mine. In absentia. Daca ai putea ramane in locul in care nu ai fost, crezand ca ai putea sa fi mai mult decat ceea ce esti, fiind ceea ce potential ai putea sa fii dar autorul nu iti permite sa faci asta. Actorii sunt jalnici la matematica. De asta si autorii sunt confuzi. Nu e nimeni confuz. Aici. Acolo. Esti tu. Nu suntem. Lumini. Lipsa actiunii. Contrast. Buze. Maine. Timp.

Ai prea plecat sau iar ai uitat? Am ramas tot acolo unde nu am fost. Esti tu? Sunt. Prin tine.

The dreamer's soundtrack

You are too much butter
And I too little bread
To spread
The beauty
From that silly head.


Asa a inceput totul. Concluzie nu valiza te cara pe tine ci tu devii una. Exista psihologia calatorului. Casa universala. Omul cochilie valiza. Nimic enigmatic. E peste tot si e de nicaieri.
Viseaza etern.
Alterneaza.

Citeste naiv. Se pierde printre diverte obiecte de arta sau non arta in fuctie de posibilati. Se indragosteste constant de Matisse dar isi pierde constant cheile.
E capabil sa perceapa diferenta dintre mundan si abstract dar a uitat sa manance azi.
A uitat sa comunice.
S-a uitat.
S-a dezumanizat.

Pinguinul de demult s-a adaptat si a devenit un fel de cuvant.
Cuvant vorbit de multi inteles de putini.
Ca un glob bizar agatat de un perete.
Nu, nu am spus sa asumati neaparat ca fiind pozitiv.
Un trend condimentat cu insolatie si ramas bun.

A fugit de aici inainte sa scrie asta.
S-a intamplat ca scrisul sa plece ceva mai tarziu.

Intr-o seara a cunoscut autorul. Dar cine esti tu.Dar ce cauti tu aici.Dar nu inteleg. De fiecare cand trebuie sa fac ceva cu actoria o patesc.Nu patesti nimic pur si simplu am si eu nevoie de o intriga. Dar eu nu am cerut sa fi tu autor. Dar nici nu m-am oferit. Efectiv nu pot sa imi dau demisia, te rog sa inteleg. Si atunci ce o sa fac. O sa te descalti, te inchizi in tine, fugi, te intorci, mai alergi odata, te rotesti in glob ca de obicei si gata. Gata. Asta e actoria. Un glob. Am inteles acum. Asadar raman. Daca e complicat ramai. Raman. Cu tot cu glob asta e tot ce ai. Incredibil 24 de ani, un glob, curs al actiunii nederminat dar relativ congestionat. Stii deja. Globul, visul, globul, visul, stiu. NU. Nu ai inteles. Am inteles. Visul,globul,visul. Globul esti tu, limita esti tu, realitatea esti tu. Eu sunt drumul.Mergi. Nu. Mergem. Nu. Aproape. Mai sunt 678 zile, 34 de vise,  23 de oameni, numai 12 maini, numai 2 ochi, nelocalizat. Localizat.Septembrie.Insista. Tu. Nu Septembrie insista.

Aici.Tai inceputul. Simti niste batai pulsand in aerul pe care il respiri. Ajungi acolo. Am ajuns. Nu stiu cum. Imi e bine. Visul.

The butterfly effect, Thoreau and Ash

Traiectoria dragostei noastre a condus catre o camera. O camera care a stat inchisa mult prea mult timp. Imi e familiar totul, aerul, mirosul tau dimineata, zambetul de pe cearceaf, lampa enervanta de pe birou. Mainile de pe oglinda care incearca sa te regaseasca si sa se vindece. Privesc pe geam si ploaia ti-a sters azi urmele. Umbra in schimb a ramas, dar se va dizolva si ea.

Ei au numit-o femeia disparuta. Pentru ca ea incetase sa isi apartina, isi pierduse motivarea si alerga dupa el, ultimul fluture din Octombrie. Intr-o zi alergand prin padure, l-a zarit, pe masura ce ea se apropia el se indeparta. Da, padurea isi pierduse si ea romantismul si totusi pastrase acest ultim fluture. Alergand dupa el in nesiguranta ei, cautandu-se si vrand sa fie iar completa el se indeparta din ce in ce mai repede. Nici macar nu ii raspundea. Dramatismul ei, nevoia ei sufocanta ii hraneau dezgustul. In aceeasi seara, Ash s-a intors acasa si a incercat sa scrie.

Nu putea sa scrie. Unde era Ea? Erau doar franturi ramase, ca o filmare de amatori viata ei se pierduse de traiectoria intiala. Avea 27 de ani si era la fel de indragostita de plimbarile cu fluturi ca prima data. Se intorcea pe aceeasi poteca in fiecare zi dar fluturele nu era de vazut. De fiecare data alerga haotic, pana cand in ziua in care s-a asezat.
Nu inteleg, nu inteleg, nu inteleg, nu inteleg, nu inteleg, nu inteleg... Era ecoul care se auzea in intreaga padure. Vroia sa fie singura si printre oameni, si realizase ce lipsea, trebuia sa se cunoasca si sa se regaseasca, da, asta nu inseamna o garantie a fericirii dar inseamna curajul de a lupta pentru redobandirea propriului eu si anularea zilelor repetitive. Abandonul muncii lui Sisif pentru munca asupra propriului eu, l-a adus pe el pe umarul ei. Fluturele nu a stat mult pana sa plece din nou dar a stat suficient incat sa ii aminteasca de libertate si de foc.

Elegy

You may break my heart
But don’t wake up my spirit
My mind is shaped like a bruise
Don’t make me happy
Then dress me in black
Don’t say you are forever young
When all you hope is to stop me from being strong.

We are all paper planes, purposeless in vain, living in the memory of our Other, which is inseparable from our own existence. Don’t tell me you can cross any waters for me or become my saviour. Don’t ask me to walk in your shoes then abandon me in the desert of your heart with nothing but the thoughts of a future in shades of utopia.
Don’t dare, don’t dare to hold me and then release me and not even look when I fall down like Icarus. Don’t make me a mountain of pain and remorse when you could potentially turn me into your casual sun. Yes I want to be your September sun, warming you up gently, I want to embrace your every single word and make love to your memory. Because that’s all I have. 


don’t walk on the same road with me but at least look at how my road looks because of you, the changes you brought.  You are trapped under my skin but wasn’t there a piece of you that didn’t want to escape? Isn’t there a part of your whispers that wanted a temporary shelf, an intimate shelter like my mind? It felt like it, but here I am now standing on the road where we meet. It’s 3 am and I’m just as empty as you found me at first, I had to empty myself of everything as the thought of you weighted more than my whole life. 

Still wondering if you are rather a shadow, a fragment of my imagination or just a scent of indignation.