the shift

it was a shift
imperceptable to anyone but her.
-the girl who always suffered
who always complained
who always tried to
fix
save
forget
forgive,
but who never thought of her
or maybe always had.

it was a shift
no one predicted
but many had hoped to see soon
that advice who always lingered
on everyone`s lips
those words that never stopped making sense
because they did.

it was a shift
even her wondered how
and when
and then she stopped and stared
it was real
it was now

so she had finally made it through on the other side
the side that doesn`t hurt when you say mum
or dad
or brother
or sister

but she knew
oh how she knew
that shift was not an end
it was but the first step
to something new
she knew now that the word hurt
will have new meanings
new ways
new names
and she felt joy

so she said well
let`s see how this is like!

nevisez

visez un buchet de flori magic, cu rosu intens si portocaliu foarte vesel, cu miros de frezie alba si un maner lucios de satin.
visez papionul cu picatele si vesta cafenie langa un zambet cu toti dintii de lapte.
visez copilul zambitor care duce florile intr-un cosulet mai mare si mai greu decat poate el cara. visez drumul alb pe care pasii lui mici o sa il traseze in cinismul impregnat in fiecare dintre cei pe langa care trece.
visez lacrimile neplanse ale bunicilor mei dragi. visez ca le sterg eu de fiecare data.
visez valsul dansat cu tatal meu. visez ca oamenii vor privi si vor spune `ce mandru trebuie sa fie!`.
visez culorile rochiilor zecilor de fete frumoase care vor dansa razand. visez verdele rochiilor.
visez lumanarile si nuferii si fiecare sunet al tocului inalt al mamei.
visez ca e mai simplu decat pare, ca e diferit decat ar fi pentru toti ceilalti oameni, ca e fara dezamagiri si fara oboseala.
si nu e doar un vis. dar parca nici real nu e. e nevis.

detalii

ma gandesc la detalii.

sunt un titirez de emotie care sapa prin podeaua de lemn
in timp ce se rasuceste continuu invingand legile fizicii.
nu e de mirare ca ametesc atat de repede.
cu fusta larga si alba, din dantela ivoire,
ma invartesc necontenit
si fac rugaciuni in gand
ca timpul sa fie bun cu mine
si sa-mi mai dea un ragaz de gandire,
de rasuflare,
de mirare
in fata atator lucruri bune si rele pe care le-am trait.

palaria din varful capului unui copil blond.
si cret.
cu ochii mari si gene bune.
cu maini grasute care se prind de boruri
si incearca sa indese suvitele care ii gadila orajii.
bate vantul.

papucii de lemn din picioarele unui polonez.
rigizi.
stramti.
niciodata comozi.

pasarile care nu se odihnesc niciodata din zbor.
merele care nu ajung sa se coaca niciodata pentru ca sunt furate.
desi nu sunt de aur.
lemnul nou de brad uscat cu mirosul lui crud.
pisica neagra cu ochii mirati care iti trece calea zilnic.
versurile pe care ti le amintesti atunci cand simti un anume miros.

toate detaliile pe care atunci cand le descoperi iti vine sa le intinzi mana, sa le imbratisezi, sa le saruti si sa le spui ca iti pare rau ai trecut pe langa ele fara sa le saluti de atatea ori. parca toata viata ta le-ai apreciat doar in statusurile de pe facebook ale prietenilor, in fragmente din carti, copiate pe o agenda ratacita, in vorbe celebre de oameni celebri care te sfatuiesc sa pretuiesti micile lucruri. dar parca niciodata nu le-ai cautat in tine.

in seara asta ma gandesc la detalii. si la rochia de dantela. o sa ma invartesc ca un titirez imbracata in ea.

o mare de liniste

mi-era dor de mare. cu linistea ei de valuri ritmice, care imi aminteste mereu de cadelnita popii din satul copilariei. cu fiecare zornait facea mai multa liniste.
mi-era dor de apa inselatoare care te tine la suprafata, dar care te vrea in larg, pacalit de cantecul sirenelor.
mi-am ingropat degetele in nisip si am trait doua zile la foc mic, ca o cafea buna de care parca iti pare rau ca a dat in fiert. te bucuri ca i-ai strans caimacul si uiti ca te arde pielea si iti simti pleopele ca doua scrumiere in care soarele si-a stins mii de tigari.
incet, incet, am respirat aerul dens si cumva, intr-un mod absurd si minunat, am uitat de gri si m-am culcat pe verde si roz. am zburat cu gargaritele si am inotat cu rapanele si a fost usor.
zmeul rosu mi-a amintit ca sunt mereu lucruri pe care nu le fac pentru ca cred ca nu stiu cum se face. dar instinctul e mai puternic decat mintea, decat vinul rosu de casa, decat doua boabe incapatanate de nisip intre masele.
au fost doua zile lungi si o dimineata cu vant.
ma intorc, sa ma astepti ca si cand!

strangers with memories

ceas

"Opreşte trecerea! 
Ştiu că unde nu e moarte, nu e nici iubire - şi totuşi, Te rog: 
Opreşte, Doamne, ceasornicul cu care ne măsori destrămarea."

Lucian Blaga

I am not sad

“He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others--the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.” 
― Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated