my determined hands
they know the world better than my eyes or lips
they sense the snow, fire and ice in an embrace
my hands give a real hug
my hands lean into a dance,
open like tulips in the spring and close the doors that were too long opened.
Doors scratched with thornes of love and passion and emotion.
My hands understand better the world.
Let my hands dance a tulip dance and play the piano in a living room of dreams
they will know what to do with those doors.
I am one way and in an only way
I am brave and vulnerable
I am enthusiastic and energetic
but sometimes I open up to you and others few
and I am tired and less of how I used to be.
maybe it is my imagination
or my intuition that is far fetched
but I feel you waiting.
not so sure of what.
just some thoughts
some things you decipher in my presence
or just of my presence.
most probably it is nothing at all
it is again nothingNess of my whisper
whisper to share
why do I still feel the need to write my emotions down?
or just to say hi
or only to say I just left some place early or late.
It has no purpose.
Will learn to stop.
Seeing Iasi through your eyes
seeing it again in a festival of colors
Seeing Iasi through your eyes would be a journey I would partake.
There was once in the most known story in the world 12 men and many woman, who looked after a vulnerable young man.
A man of truth and maybe of madness. A man who called himself the Son of God. Not the God of lighting, or the Son of darkness, but the Son of the one and only God, the God that the Hebrews portrayed, the God that only the ones that will be called Christians saw.
Between the 12th there was a sinner, there was a traitor and there was one that thought he had the faith of the kings of Jerusalem, but he was still full of fear, a person with doubts and failures. He sang the song of treason before the third rooster sang his morning song.
His name was Petru. The one Pavel looked after.
I waited for you
for your presence
for your smile
for your voice and for your stories
I could not connect to anyone else
In any way.
Then suddenly a glimpse of reality
nothingness has disappeared into the veil of the afternoon in
waiting.
The moon reminds me to come out and play.
Waiting needs to be done with
It is for another type of woman.
my lips are week and kind
my knees are songs of mermaids
my hair is too blonde to count
my eyes always tell the truth
my breast are strong and rebels
my hands are my grandmothers hands
my chin is judgemental and intended.
my shoulders are soft and green
my mind and my heart are many times in contradiction.
when life becomes a little bit too much of of what happens in between.
tired of all that I need to push to happen
tired.
My first memory is of a pink dress, on my mothers closet. My mother's upset. My little sister in her arms. My mother throws the dress. My grandmother catches it. My mother's mother with her blue eyes and black hair.
The most beautiful woman in the world, according to my mother.
If you ask me, my mother will always be the most beautiful woman in the world, with her high neck, her smile, her brown green eyes, with her beautiful long hands.
My mother's line of beauty runs deep in all mothers in my family, for their daughters and sons. And all of them, one day or another threw away a pink dress.
Not all pink dresses suit woman in my family.
days when I almost don't see you
days that theoretically are so busy
days that stay unfinished
in a single way,
a single thought that I try to catch in the needle I have in my hair
but it escapes, it builds through the gates of my soul,
it sunks in the water of my conscience,
underneath all that I say I want and need.
it just is.
A rebel thought that unleashes fire and ice inside my body.
A rebel thought that arrives back in my mind with a memory of your smile.
And I cross my arms and I try to think of all I do not like about you. But your smile brought back by a rebel thought somehow makes all of those other thoughts fade.
Why I like your smile so much?
because it is the only one that you can not control, that shows a little bit of what is underneath.
I see you with the corner of my eye
at a table surrounded by your people
but tired, with your eyes red.
I see you in another city, in Cluj, or in Alba, or maybe in Iasi surrounded by people you like. Making your presence known.
I used to see you more and to like seeing you more in my mind.
If apocalypse would come tomorrow
I would pray and fight for my kids to be
to become in apocalyptic earth
If apocalypse would come tomorrow I would get high for the first time in my life
If apocalypse would come tomorrow I would travel to the sea and would be there in the sand, near the sea, when it comes.
If apocalypse would come tomorrow I would get on my knees and would hug my kids and would ask an invisible God to save them. Would ask all my ancestors, would ask invisible and indivisible forces to guard them.
If apocalypse would come tomorrow I would have only one regret. A most common one. Never kissed by instinct.
you implant a word or maybe an expression
I take it and I play with it
with pleasure in my mind
because it is fun
it is innocent
it is an experiment
a game of sorts
I put my full hand on
and I capture it with a smile.
A game to play.
Most games I like to play, not only for the win
and with you maybe I would play to win,
or maybe just to have fun.
glowing in the dark
the words imagined are the ones that hurt the most
the words your own abis feeds you with
when you think nobody is looking
coming from a place of invisible structure.
nothingness I know from long time youngest love
nothingness shared on a bench in Cismigiu
nothingness that seemed at one point something
lost nothingness.
I used to dance all night and drink juice and play ping pong and laugh and feel the beginings so near to my heart.
I used to be always smiling and always present.
I used to take one sip of wine and feel anxious.
I used to dance from my core, not on any rhythm known to man or ape, but to a rhythm I felt in my heart.
Close to a door I sometimes open to let my hopes out in the sun.
I touch the sun and the sun wrinkles a little bit
my heart is near this sun that rest on waves that never move more than I do.
the waves I love, from the seaside, from the blue and the green and another blue sky.
When my life will end I will take a moment to think of my sea and of my sun on top of snow hills.
When my life will end I will have no regrets.
I am true to myself, even in harder times.
Many times this honesty does not help me. I would prefer to be sofisticated, but I am not. I would prefer to have the voice of a soprano, but for sure will never happen. I would prefer to take less to my heart and more to my mind.
Sometimes I manage, sometimes my blue and red heart is too excited and sometimes it is too much of a woman's heart.
Strawberry yoghurt with pieces of fruit that smell like wild flowers in spring.
Daisies and wild roses that live a static life of beauty and grace. I never envy flowers. I never wanted to be one. I prefer to be a motorbike or a submarine or the sun somedays, when it is winter and it has the courage to glow enough to make his presence felt.
The sun on my skin, touching the waves of my heart. Feeling the wild side, I always try to hide.
I would talk to you, but you never seem
to want to.
I would contradict you
but maybe only to make it fun,
and I would seize it with a smile.
Nothing seems to be normal anymore.
a train that never stops
my thoughts that run away like an wild horse
no way to keep them near
no way to domesticate them
discipline I am told it is the way,
for my actions,
not for my thoughts.
my thoughts run to you, still.
many times I wonder why I need it those 7 minutes?
why I need it to share a such unshakeable truth, that does not leave room for a question mark? Or for a walk,
or to my surprise does not leave room for pressence, for nothing else then this 7 minutes.
But then I remembered
my lack of focus, lack of concentration, lack of sleep, lack of me.
Tired of all that is said but untrue and pretended and just image portrayed as reality. Tired.
sunt un om naiv
am incredere in oameni
la o intrebare directa o sa raspund mereu
sincer. Mai ales daca tin la omul din fata mea.
Chiar daca e o intrebare personala.
Sunt un om naiv, caci gasesc frumusete in fiecare zi si in fiecare om.
Silence of the gods
in an apocalyptic future where machinery and machine learning will ensure a hybrid survival
The stakes are so high that pretending that nothing but yoghurt or milk exists is the most natural thing to do.
Controversial feelings.
Of wanting to be closer, maybe closest and of wanting to not desire anything of sorts.
Looking to avoid and missing you, when not around.
stairs that lead nowhere
infinite stairs of no infinite evolution
as it is always the case to go round and round in staircases that have similar traits as you have an infinite labyrinth which exits that have an entrance in the middle of the labyrinth.
Stairs with no consensus, no consequence and no way to finish.
it seems you can not stand to be close enough to touch my shoulder
or to look me longer in the eyes
but my feelings, my intuition says something completely different, almost opposite.
in the end does not matter what it feels like, most probably it is my infinite nuanced imagination.
Sa rupem pisica in doua,
ca intr-un film cu Raskapur si surd si mut.
in care universul de iaurt se prelinge intr-o stare nici drinkable, nici spoonable.
in care as rupe si totusi imi e teama sa o rup.
Deschid Portile si alerg pana la fantana. Ma arunc in ea si mai ca ma lovesc de tot ceea ce am zis, ceea ce am deschis si sfarsit totodata. Ma rup de la mijloc.
Soldurile imi plutesc deasupra celor 2 centimetrii de apa vie, iar umerii si capul s-au blocat sub apa, intr-un mucegai staruitor a tot ceea ce ar fi fost daca. Soldurile se unduiesc.
Urechile mi se cutremura.
Ma ridic cu greu. Imi lipesc soldurile de corp si ma catar de-a lungul fantanii.
La poarta ma asteapta o alta lume. Lumea cuiva drag. Dau sa intru, dar de picior mi se impiedica propria-mi lume.
No entry for another world. Un semn clar, ignorat, dar agatat pe poarta.
Cineva imi arata piciorul drept. Zambesc spre acel punct.
Imi mangai lumea, ca pe un terrier un pic suparat de o pisica neagra zarita de cealalta parte a portii.
Your voice when upset hurts my ears for it is a voice of the thousand nights of silence. It is the voice that keeps its dissapointment in line, but still manages to awaken a little self doubt. Your voice that has no rulling, but still makes me weaker at heart, never in spirit.
Linia infinitului e plina de nuante.
Linia vietii e plina de alb si gri si mult albastru.
Linia pe care mi-am dorit-o mereu, cea mai imperfecta linie din lume pe care spiridusii se arunca si se dau pe derdelusul ei, intr-o siguranta incerta a celor ce se joaca mereu.
Joaca te pazeste de certitudini, de perfectiune, de rational si de comitment. Joaca este doar joaca.
O joaca a culorilor sincere, fara nuante, dupa o zi ploioasa.
Confirmarea unor lumi diferite. Opuse aproape. La limita unui strat de zapada care se ridica intr-un swirl de iaurt si se transforma intr-o inovatie usoara, ca o patinatoare ce sufera mereu de o foame groaznica. Limitele se rostogolesc peste pamantul rece. Lumile se deschid doar in noptile de luna plina cand lupoaicele se aduna si se inchina unui Zeu care urla la soare in lumina unei luni trecatoare.
First 7 days and first 17 days of the year. The echo of my childhood. The limerescence of my mid life crisis in an awaken proposition of antilimerescence.
I have seen the ghost of my past life and she told me only one thing - you do and feel only what you were meant to do and feel here.
In the snow, where my boys play,
right close to the land I hold dear
in the snow I undress my feelings of lost, of unclarity, of lack of judgement.
In the snow I let them, right beneath the snow man, whom my little ones named Salami. It is their laughter, their voices, their hands their smiles and their cry that give me power and guidance.
In the snow I let my stubborness be.
It is my intuition, a feeling I have no understanding for, in day to day life, a feeling that has no reason, no afterlife, no face and no undergoing way to be.
It is my intuition that drives me. My intuition without exterior motives, without anything else then a feeling. My intuition I reject and my intuition that every single day has a way to transcend my rationale, my decisions, my no go. I really don't like my intuition nowadays.
It really makes me take noncontainable decisions. Non argumentable decisions. It is my intuition versus what I have build for so long. Maybe it is not my intuition. Maybe it is temporarily. Although temporarily it is not.
Intre minte si corp,
Pe linia ce separa cerul de pamant,
danseaza pitici imbracati in albastru royal
cu palarii inalte ce din cand in cand imi gadila
barbia. Singura care are un strop de credinta infinita.
Danseaza piticii o hora de gorj, o hora scuturata, infundata si neschimbata de ani,
recicleaza in centrul ei, lacrimi din tinerete, nestemate figurine ale eului de atunci apar pe margine.
Nu se cutremura, nici nu zambesc. Sunt cum eram demult. Si se sting si se alinta, cum e normal, pe varful palariei la intalnirea cu barbia. Rar piticii imi zbuciuma scurt corpul. O tuse violenta ma surprinde din piept. Au pus de o sarba, ca sa imi trezeasca pieptul si gatul si stomacul.
Se rupe cercul piticilor straini. Vine momentul sa ii recunosc, sa ii potolesc, sau sa ii eliberez, sa duca credinta barbiei si in restul corpului, nescuturat cu adevarat, de ani.
