speak well of death

I woke up on Sunday very early, as I do nowadays. I'm probably old by now, I just haven't realized it. Old people do this sort of thing. I went into the kitchen for my coffee, but when I got there, I froze. Baby was obviously ill, barely standing on his tiny feet.

I never cried so hard in my life, not even when my dad died.


Baby is a blue parrot. And I usually don't pay that much thought to him. In the mornings, we talk a bit while I wait for my coffee to boil, and over the years, I often suspected him of forgetting who I was from one day to the next. At some point, I was angry with him for beating up the smaller birds. I pointed my finger at him in warning. He stopped hurting the others, but he was upset with me for weeks and he pretended not to see me when I greeted him in the morning. He doesn't know my name, but he knows what "don't!" means.

He's smaller than my fist, and I have really small hands. And I don't really care for him, he's my mom's bird. He's just... there.

About a month ago, his girlfriend died. Suddenly. I was shocked. I didn't see it coming, and I see everything. I blamed my mom for being selfish and careless. I cried, then I cried some more, reminded of my own possible death. Then I moved on. Just like everyone. She was green.


Then my mom wanted to buy a new one, because Baby was lonely and depressed. I became involved again, urging her not to buy an identical one to the one that died. It seemed ungracious and plain sick to replace her like that. And then she bought two, very young ones, and I spent a week angry at her for being cheap, and selfish.

and then the new girl died about a week ago, despite my taking her to the doctor and putting my faith in him; the treatment didn't work. and I started having nightmares about being dead too, with tiny, skinny, birds legs. and my mom wouldn't really care about my wishes, just like she does in real life, I thought.


But now Baby is dying and I can't stand it. When the hell did I start caring for this little guy? 3 years is a long time, but he's just there. what do I care?


I spent this whole Sunday away from home, terrified of coming back and finding him dead, like I found the other ones. Maybe 3 in a row is too much. Maybe his being a rebel touched a cord inside of me and we became alike. Maybe it's because he's blue, or maybe because I'm afraid of dying myself. Or maybe it's because I was too young to mourn my father, and I was never aloud to cry over him - cos I'm expected to be perfect and strong. and now I cry for all of them, me included.


and I wish I was angry at the two doctors that don't seem to know what they're doing. Or angry at my mom, for whatever. Anger makes you feel strong, and mighty. But all I feel is dread.
Maybe I am identified with the poor bird. We're both blue, we're both helpless, we both don't understand what the heck is going on.


and there are moments when I can't stand the tension anymore. I want him to die already! He's gonna die anyway, right? why wait. he's having a miserable life. he can't eat the stuff he likes; I terrify him to death 3 times a day when I have to catch him and shove disgusting medicine down his throat. and the damned thing's not working. and he's getting worse. and I'm a horrible person for wanting him to die faster, die on my own terms, so I could only cry once. not 3 times a day, for a week.



and maybe I brought this on. I've been reading this book - about death, and dying, and the primal anxiety that we all feel about it. as I read through, I felt superior in my understanding. such arrogance! yeah, so what if all problems start here? the man who can't chose one woman, the friend who can't be alone, the other who throws himself in pointless, numerous affairs, even my mom who won't let me grow up, and my refusing any sort of responsibility or commitment - we're all terrified of running out of endless possibilities, afraid that the voice inside is just waiting for a chance to whisper: you're going to die too!

but who cares?


and we don't speak of death. we never speak of it.
we speak of sex, and politics, and football. about our hopes and dreams, and our stupid, shallow ambitions. but we never speak of Death.
nobody wanted to talk about what I feel these days. I tell them my parrot died today. And they're pretending not to hear. I'm heartbroken. My whole world collapsed in a second bc some stupid bird that doesn't even know who I am is dying. you hear? I'm dying inside.


and I'm terrified.


and I went straight to bargaining on Sunday morning. as if my worthless life could actually be a bargaining chip. as if god would actually manifest itself at my will. as if he/she couldn't see right through my selfish offer.
I wasn't really trying to save him. I was only trying to save my sorry ass from living through losing him. and god knows this, as he saw the same stupid movies as I did. sacrifice must be honest to work my ass. that's a fairytale. you can't negotiate your way around death. it knows every trick in the book.

and I know all about death. I know about grief. and anger. I watched my 80 years old grandmother die in my arms, and I didn't even blink. I know that all things come to an end at some point, and I get it why it must be so. but this is personal. this is my death somehow - it belongs to me. and all the knowledge in the world won't help me - I need to control this.
not him. I won't have it. I won't let him go. I'll shove all that yellow stuff down his throat, I'll go to every damned doctor in this country, someone's got to know how to fight this, how to stop this. this must stop. now.I couldn't save the other two, but I will save him. this time, I won't lose. I can't! I can't...


but the crazy part?
it's that all this is about me.
Not even his death belongs to him. I stepped in and I made it personal. It belongs to me now, it's between me and my god. and god doesn't seem to care about what I want. god minds his own business.

and Baby will die, regardless

Sa-mi plang de mila...

am fost la mare, o zi si un pic.
o dorinta nerostita, indeplinita pe neasteptate.

m-am simtit ingrozitor de singura, atat de singura ca intr-un moment de disperare, mi-am facut si bagajul, hotarata sa infrunt 2 autobuze si un tren sa ajung ACUM! inapoi acasa.

apoi a rasarit soarele, norii s-au imprastiat, m-am mutat din camera aia portocalie si odioasa, pe plaja, si m-am linistit. mi-am cumparat niste foi si am inceput sa vorbesc cu mine. nu stiu de ce, dar propria mea voce ma linisteste - cand vorbesc suficient de lent ca sa ma ascult, si mana, lenta saraca, imi permite asta.

am luptat in secret cu un sentiment de rusine care ma prindea pe la colturi, cand ii vedeam pe ceilalti cum se uitau la mine. o femeie singura pare intotdeauna penibila, cumva, nu? de parca e defecta. daca mai si scrie de zor, parca prea cauta sa se dea interesanta. saraca. doar-doar, o baga-o si pe cineva in seama...

cand a fost sa pun cortul pe plaja, am gandit indelung unde sa-l pun. cat de aproape de celelalte, putine? aproape de cine? n-as vrea ca baietii aia sa creada ca mi-o caut cu lumanarea daca ma pun langa ei.
am ales instant sa-l pun la apus, ca sa nu bat la ochi. noua fauna de vama a ratacit pe drum vechile reguli de conduita. vamaiotu postmodern nu se simte libercugetator decat daca urla noaptea la 3 in capul muritorilor de rand care dorm in prostia lor. n-aveam chef de glume.

daca nu stau pe plaja parca n-am fost la mare. oricum comfortul unui dus in tara asta se imbina gretos cu lucrurile ieftine si de prost gust cu care sunt placate camerele 'de hotel', invariabil portocalii! (de ce? de ce? de ce?) Am devenit mai sensibila, mai mofturoasa. Uratul imi face rau fizic. O noapte in camera aia si m-am trezit cu greata. Am dormit ghemuita in sacul meu, cu teama de a ma apropia de cearsafurile alea mirosind a portocaliu ieftin.

Pe plaja, ritmul marii ma linisteste. Am dormit bustean, in ciuda idiotului care punea muzica in Stuff cu bassul la maxim si boxe de calculator. la 6, am deschis vag un ochi interior cand am auzit iar bolero-ul. excelent, mi-am zis, inca fac asta. n-am avut putere sa vad rasaritul, mi-am inchis la loc ochiul si m-am culcusit in cei doi saci de dormit pe care-i mixasem: e si mai frig cand esti singur. n-am dormit de mult asa bine.

dimineata, o vreme absolut superba m-a facut sa ma indoiesc de amintirile recente cu ploaie si frig. bine,... dincolo de spatiul gol pe plaja care o lumineaza, vama e deprimanta cand vezi toate gheretele si barurile alea parasite, distruse. mancare proasta, pt ca n-am indraznit sa mananc singura la un restaurant. poate sunt eu de moda veche, dar si in bucuresti se uita lumea la mine ca la circ daca ma asez singura la o masa. nu pot sa mananc in tensiune, sunt si eu om.

aveam bani in plus (aia pe care nu i-am mai dat camerei portocalii), asa ca mi-a luat rapid o carte si niste magneti de frigider. sunt un monstru de egoism, stiu: n-am luat nimic, nimanui. doar mie. ultimii ani au adunat in mine multa nemultumire si tristete: ma simt extrem de neapreciata, si folosita, si nevalidata. asa ca nu mai pot da, nimic, nimanui. nu mai am de unde.

stiu, tre sa invat sa cer; dar in ciuda a ce stiu despre injonctiuni, as prefera mai degraba oameni care ofera alora care doar iau. asa sunt eu, naiva. problema e ca nu stiu de unde sa-i iau. fac io ce fac si toate relatiile mele se denatureaza rapid. par prea sfanta, prea perfecta, prea critica, prea naiba-sa-ma-ia-ca-zau-nu-sunt. fiecare vede ce-i convine. sunt ca o oglinda in care se reflecta Frica. De ce, nu stiu. Poate mi-am decis eu, la un moment dat, sa-i tin pe toti la distanta. oare de ce? ptr ca erau superficiali si energofagi nerecunoscatori? ar fi o idee.

imi vine sa urlu. la mine, sa ma trezesc.
la cer, sa ma scuteasca o data!
e funny cum calitatile se transforma miraculos in defecte cand nu primesti ceea ce vrei.

e al naibii de usor sa-mi reprosezi ca sunt "prea" orice. n-as putea fi 'calduta' nici daca as vrea. e posibil sa dispretuesc asta pt ca nu pot fi. asta e singurul lucru care a ramas constant in viata mea, inca de cand eram in scoala primara: vreau sa fiu si eu ca ceilalti. sa blend in.si Vocea care intervine si zice: nu fii proasta!
as vrea eu!

cand eram printr-a 5-a, era o gasca al naibii de cool. visam sa fiu de-a lor. imi imaginam tot felul de chestii cool pe care le faceau, si cum aveam eu sa-i cuceresc cu eforturi supraomenesti prin care sa ma dau drept cool. printr-a 8-a, nu mai stiu cum, m-am trezit printre ei. am aflat ca ei ma credeau pe mine cool, ca le-a fost frica tot timpul ala sa vorbeasca cu mine sa nu le dau flit, si ca erau ingrozitor de boring. bine, faptul ca ma credeau pe mine speciala e de'ajuns sa-i descalifice, I know. si sunt realista, nu modesta.

ceea ce vreau eu e sa nu mai gandesc. deloc. ok, sa stiu cat rest am de primit la paine, ca sa nu ma mai uit tamp la femeia aia cand imi cauta aprobarea din priviri. da, asta ar fi grozav: sa ma pot concentra pe paine. capul meu de mate saracu :-))) d'aia n-am facut eu liceul de arta, sa nu se piarda geniul lu taicamiu. HA! ce oameni prosti (mama si profu de mate). ce oameni prosti. uita-te la mine: cat naiba face 5x8?


MOR de plictiseala. nici asta nu s-a schimbat. cand eram foarte mica si ma pocnea plistiseala, ma puneam in cap. si stateam asa ore intregi. ciudat, dar si acum gasesc pozitia xtrem de relaxanta. poate putin prea ... sexuala, perversa, dar whatever. proiectez :-))

ce frumos era la mare. ce caut io aici, in lumea asta gri in care nu-mi gasesc deloc locul?


nu vreau sa zic lma niciunei marii. nu vreau! sunt deja prea multe complezente. n-a mai ramas urma de 'verde', numa' plastic cat vezi cu ochii. nu vreau, frate. nu vreau sa ma "integrez". nici lu' mama nu-i zic. asa de puternica e credinta mea :-) dc as avea si nitica ambitie, ce frumoasa ar fi viata...


un nene, pe plaja, vine si-mi aduce o carte. "v-am vazut scriind mai devreme". zic 'da' cu inima stransa. sunt extrem de nesociabila. n-am chef niciodata sa dau explicatii, mai ales cand mi se aplica etichete pe frunte.
cartea n-a fost, cum ma temeam, ceva care sa ma aduca pe calea cea buna si sfanta. ci niste dialoguri, purtate de oameni necunoscuti mie, despre chestii care de altfel ma intereseaza. dumnezeu, viata, logica lor, bine si rau... d'astea. nimic, dar absolut nimic nou.
am citit, dezamagita, la intamplare, intrebandu-ma de ce trebuia sa ajunga la mine cartea aia. de ce atunci. cat de nedrept ca suferisem o zi intreaga singura, si azi aveam deja doua carti!

abia dupa ce omu si-a recuperat cartea si m-a amenintat "pe dupa-amiaza!", abia atunci am inteles: nu era nimic nou in carte, dar in mine, Vocea nu se auzise nicio secunda. niciun comentariu. nicio rautate. nici pic de dispret. doar dezamagire, ca asa e ea, pretentioasa. ii plac surprizele.
dar mesajul dintre randuri era "ai dreptate".

nu, nu era bucata despre genii; n-am de gand sa ma las complexata de unu ca Leonardo daVinci. nici faza despre Dumnezeu ca dublare energetica a orice. stim si noi cate ceva. Nici bucata despre Liberul Arbitru, ca necesitate in a invata singuri despre Bine si Rau ca optiuni interioare, nu obligatii exterioare. ok, oamenii aia nu ziceau chiar asa, dar eu nu retin cuvinte si nu pot cita. erau de acord cu mine, si asta e tot ce conteaza.
dar a fost un detaliu, aproape trecut cu vederea, cum ca Voltaire l-a criticat pe Dumnezeu ca e prea tolerant cu oamenii. Nu stiu mai nimic despre Voltaire-omu, nu stiu cum a sfarsit-o, dar sper ca si-a invatat lectia. Ceea ce mi-o doresc si mie de altfel, cu indoiala de rigoare.

Acum vreau sa stiu daca Dumnezeu s-a suparat pe el, sau dimpotriva, a fost intelegator...

We had it all, I gave it up, I wanted more

I have this friend. She’s beautiful, and has like a million friends, and everything in her life went easy. Always. She always gets her way, and she can see the sense in that. She never doubts it, for a second. Her right to the things she wants.

There is no rejection in her life. No telling her 'no'. There's no way she cannot have it all - all that she wants. And she cannot stand pain. Any, no matter how small. She doesn't see how it can make sense in getting something she wants. She doesn’t understand suffering for the sake of a greater good. I do.

Now why is that?

It doesn’t make me wiser, just more compliant. It doesn’t mean that I understand more about life, or whatever. My karma theories only help cover the feeling of discontent and helplessness with how my life always seem to lead to some sort of suffering, or letting go of things I cannot have. I need to give it some sort of sense, and it helps me to think that all things worth having are worth paying for. But what it all comes down to – do I end up paying more for the things others get for free?

And did I learn not to bother wanting things to cover for not having them? Did I learn being wise as a way to cope with rejection?



All the things I know now, all the things that make me look so wise and knowledgeable I had to figure them out because things seldom turn out the way I want them to. I'm often left with wondering what the hell went wrong, or why the hell can’t I have what I want, just for once? What it must be life for those who always get the best before they even move a neuron! I never get what I want, ever. Unless I can give it to myself, unless I can make it happen -and that usually means ‘things’ – because I have this innate fear of playing with people’s lives. It’s like… if I make someone do something, it’s not real. It’s manipulation, it’s fake, it’s not their free choice and it won’t last. Hence, it means nothing.

Yes, I do believe people can make people do things and bypass free choice. Not because I’m better or more powerful than others, not bc of some magical thinking on my part, but bc people often do give away their responsibility and fake participation and don’t own up to the things they do. I have tons of examples – friends, people who have confided in me over the years I’ve heard so many men wine about how they didn’t really want to get married and have kids, someone else made them do it – that I never dare tell a man “stay with me, I’m the best option for you”. Heck, what the hell do I know? I’m not the best anything. What would I do with a prisoner?



All my friends are (happily?) married. Half of them have children, quite nice ones I’d say. The other half desperately want some. And I feel caught in the middle of all this, the blank screen for everyone's projections. Often unsure of how I stand on these issues. I was the first of them to get drunk, have a serious rel, talk freely about sex, use drugs, or whatever. I still am the one who’s had the longest rel, longer than their marriages. The cleanest breakup. The more interesting life, I should say. I can usually face up to their criticism and pushing. About what I do, or don't - with my life. But now my ex has a baby, and I can’t help feeling like the looser.

Was there a competition I wasn’t aware of?

It feels like all my dreams and wants only managed to make a mess of things. No, I didn’t want to get married then. And probably not to him, as he was then. Didn’t like him that much actually. had stopped loving him at some point. Although I did love him - so much - it got lost on the way. I know it started with him sitting in next to the taxi driver and not me coming home from the hospital. I felt lonely then. And that woke me somehow to whom he really was and had been all along: a stranger. Someone looking at me from a distance, but never holding my hand.

But I listen to him to him now and he’s different. He’s alive, he’s real, he’s perceptive, for the first time ever he notices my feelings, talks about them, pays them respect. How is this possible? Is it he’s growing older? Is it the baby, and being a father – something I didn’t use to think would work that well for him? Or is it her – the woman we never really talk about. Did she change him? Is this her influence? And further, and more important – was it me, back then? Was I the one who “made” him so cold, and distant, and unresponsive.

How can my feelings matter now, when they never mattered then, for the whole 9 years we were together? Now that I don’t matter anymore...

Am I the secret, unrecognized architect behind my failures? Is it that despite my bestest efforts not to control others, my very refusal fuels their participation in the process and becomes their motivation?
Or is that by refusing to control them, I also refuse to control my own life - thus declining my responsibility for the whole damn thing that eventually becomes my life?
Is it too much to want the other to bear the responsibility of choosing me?


So I can’t stop feeling like I lost. All the way. I traded him for the one that didn’t really love me after all. The one that never even acknowledged me - nor my feelings, or his; the one that pretended that nothing ever happened and I didn’t matter at all. The one I could never look in the eyes and tell "choose me!".
The one that wouldn’t even allow me the right to mourn his loss, as how could I have lost something that never happened? How my behavior could had been appropriate, how could my anger be just, when I never existed in the first place? Or maybe he never existed, I’m... I don't know anymore. I remember someone making me feel special, and loved. Someone encouraging me to do what’s right for me, someone who’s eyes kept smiling when looking at me. Someone who loved touching me. But I never got to have all that. It just went poof! the second I tried to touch it back. And I was left wondering.

Now why is that?

Why do I understand suffering as a just price to pay for the things I want?
Now I know I have a lot of nice things; but that's just not the point. Why do I never get what I want, even though I keep wanting less and less over the years?
Do we really ever get to choose what we get?

I know it looks like we had it all. Maybe we did, but I didn’t.

I wanted love.
And I never really got that either, did I? Now why is that?

Riddle Me This, Riddle Me That

E d'abia iulie, dar am senzatia ca a trecut o vesnicie. Anul asta ma prinde mereu pe picior gresit. Scap mereu bile din mana - nu sunt un jongler bun. Nu-mi place de mine asa imprastiata. Faci un lucru, si bun, asta sunt eu. Dar nu anul asta.

Ma simt de parca le-am scos pe toate si le-am intins pe masa, sa le vad in sfarsit, sa le stiu care sunt. Dar nu apuc. Nu ma mai apuc.
Si sunt extrem de nemultumita de mine - fac greseli, prea multe. Nimic nu mai e perfect si-mi vine sa urlu. (sa nu se trezeasca vreunu sa-mi reproseze iar ca's prea perfectiunista ca'i fut una peste bot de nu se vede! Mediocrii n-au ce cauta aici: mars! Si-asa sunteti prea multi si-mi respirati mie aerul. Degeaba.

Deci. Ce naiba se intampla cu mine?
Anu' trecut am facut un film. Ma rog, unii au crezut ca o sa fac filmu' lor (cu banii si munca mea, d'oh), si a iesit cu scantei. Vina mea ca n-am folosit italicele si boldurile cand am scris "vrei sa scrii ceva pentru mine?". Poate am zis atunci "impreuna" - intre timp m-am desteptat. In domeniul asta, cand e vb de scriitori - regizor - producator - actori, nu exista impreuna. Fiecare isi face propria opera, ceilalti il incurca. Sunt recunoscatoare pt aportu altora, dar zau ca viziunea tre sa fie unitara - a UNUIA - ca altfel se duce dracului totu. Si cand lucrezi cu mine, ala sunt EU. Nu pt ca sunt mai desteapta, ci pt eu am pus bolovanu in miscare. Urci sau te dai din drum.

L-am revazut de curand: e ok, dar are nevoie sa fie editat de cinevga care chiar stie (ie nu de mine; sorry Cati, pe tine nu te bag in oala). S-a ales prafu de el, oricum. Daca l-au inteles unii, aia's putini. Prea putini. Poate e prea complicat. Mult prea complicat. Si eu mi-am prins urechile cand am aranjat itele. Am incercat sa le arat altora cum vad eu lumea - cu toate dedesubturile scoase la iveala. Si s-au pierdut printre ele. Le-am dat de ales unde sa se uite, si s-au blocat. Le-am dat de ales ce sa vrea, si mi-au reprosat ca eu nu stiu. Shit. Prea multa libertate strica la cap. La unele capete. Ok, nu stiu de fapt cat de coerent e. Nu stiu daca... ba stiu. Pt ca sunt oameni carora nu le-am zis un cuvant inainte, si au inteles. Au simtit, ca asta era ideea.


Anyways... dupa asta m-am dus la fund. Ce sens are, nu sunt in stare, de ce aia, de nu aia, cat de proasta sunt de fapt, blah-blah. D'aia stau oamenii in patucurile lor caldute - ca sa nu-si chinuie neuronii cu intrebari din astea ecou.

Din senin, intr-o zi, am decis sa-mi iau casa - garsoniera, deh. Vreau caine, deci tre sa ma mut de aici. NU pentru ca prietenele mele gospodine provinciale si psihologi de buzunar cred ca TREBUIE aia si aia. Tare as vrea sa le strig cat de incuiate sunt. Doamne, urasc pe toata lumea azi. O frigida care crede ca io's obsedata pt ca pot vorbi despre sex fara sa ma fac rosie/verde la fata. Si implicit, probabil ca mi-e frica sa fac copii, din moment ce m-am indragostit de un timid. FUCK! Atata ipocrizie ma sufoca. Alte 2 care s-au maritat cu al doilea barbat care le-a zis buna inapoi (primu a fost Marea Dragoste Neimpartasita, un Neinteles fascinant si hiper orginal, of course [ie Looser], si acum imi dau mie lectii Despre Viata. Inelu' si hartia le-a marit si IQ-ul, si experienta de viata. In capu' lor sec. Doar bunu' simt, common sense-ul englezesc le-a scapat printre degete. Alea de la picioarele pe care si le-au bagat in el. Per ansamblu, sunt sigur deprimata pt ca LOR le e frica sa fie singure, pt ca n-am chef sa vorbesc despre problemele mele la comanda, si pt ca nu retin ca un automat toate detaliile [IRELEVANTE] ale unor discutii pedante [circulare] despre nimic.

Deci astea sunt prietenele mele. Trist, foarte trist.
Ei, ma alint. Mai sunt si altii. Altii ok. Cu care ma vad mai rar, care nu-si baga aiurea nasu', care nu ma suna doar cand au nevoie de mine (sau macar de urechile mele, banii mei, etc).
Ma infurie neputinta mea - de a-i trimite pe toti, bulk, la dracu. Sau macar pe fiecare in parte, cand o cere. Cine dracu m-a invatat sa ma simt vinovata sa fac pe desteapta?!?

Deci, revenind. Mi-am luat o garsoniera - nu stiu de ce pe aia. Nu stiu de ce atunci. la un moment dat renuntasem, ca nu gaseam ce vroiam. Asa a trebuit sa fie. Din mai multe motive.
Din altele, stupide, am cheltuit o avere sa o renovez. Asta a fost o tampenie incredibila din partea mea. Bagati la cap ce va zic: NU va mai cumparati case nearanjate; nu se merita efortul, timpul, banii pe care ii mai cheltui dupa aia. Nu mai zic ca e posibil si sa nu iasa bine si sa te sinucizi din cauza asta. Serios acuma: cel mai bine e sa cumperi ceva ce-ti place, e in forma, mai schimbi un robinet, un bec si o culoare de perete, si gata. Stii exact cat te costa, cum arata produsul final, si efortul tau va fi sa numeri banii si sa dai cu subsemnatu. Renovatu e un cosmar. Inca ma trec fiori pe sina spinarii. Si inca nu e gata :-((

Bani nu mai am asa multi. Nu cat mi-ar placea mie, oricum. Cainele ala al naibii costa o avere. Acasa asta nou e de fapt un balaur cu 12 capete care inghite bani. Tre sa ma intorc in campu' muncii, si nu sunt pregatita pt asta. Ce naiba a fost in capul meu, frate? Imi era asa bine. Cati pantofi, cate genti, cate farduri imi cumparam de banii aia. alea probleme, ce aveam io. Fir-ar!

ok, nu asta e problema - ci ca ma simt eu asa... confuza. Cand am plecat din Connex, stiam exact ce vreau sa fac. Aveam un vision. Un vis. L-am implinit. Nemaipomenit. Now, what? Siguru lucru pe care stiu ca-l vreau e catelu. Si pe el inapoi, sort of. Ca sa n-o iau de la capat ca nu mai am chef sa-mi prostituiez sentimetele. Si sa decid o data naibii ce culoare fac peretii aia, sa termin cu renovatu. Parca as vrea sa mai fac un film, mai mult de mila pt aia 40 de milioane pe care i-am dat nenorocitilor alora de la facultate - sa primesc ceva de ei.

Dar ce sa fac cu mine, cu viata mea. Incotro. Mi-e sila sa ma apuc de altceva. S-o iau iar de la capat. Dar nu prea vad optiuni. Mi-e sila de mine ca ma plictisesc de chestii sigure, ca-mi plac chestiile care se platesc prost si ca nu's in stare sa accept asta. Sunt al dracului de materialista. Am lucrat un an pe 75 lei ziua. Ziua inceputa la 2 noaptea, sau la 5, terminata 20-22 de ore later, pe 50 de grade sau -20. Si m-am simit nemaipomenit. Ca un peste in apa. Eu care ma tarasc din pat cel devreme la 10, saream plina de energie cand suna tel la 1:30. Asta vreau, pricepi. Pentru tot restu vietii, asta vreau. Dar nu-mi place iaurtul, si in ciuda siluetei mele, mananc mult, si-mi plac o gramada de bunatati. Si catelul, saracu, o sa vrea si el o jucarie, ceva. Niste pernite din alea cu stuff inside, o tocanita. Un vaccin. Cum sa-i sacrific lui binele pt fericirea mea stupida? Ce stiu eu? Nu-mi era naibii bine cu 1000+ euro pe luna, deh. Ce frumos ar fi putut fi in cladirile alea gri, daca inchideam si eu un pic ochii...

M-am gandit, am intors-o pe toate fetele. Sunt intr-un impas. Am incercat sa vorbesc cu oameni, mai mult ma enervez. Ar treb sa port o placuta de gat: "M-am gandit deja la asta." Imi rasuna in cap vorbele Irinei: Dar tu ai putea face orice. De parca asta ar putea fi o solutie.

Ma rog. Poate o sa-mi vina. De obicei asa e - le las asa, si-mi vine. Sunt doar obosita. Am alergat cam mult anii astia. Am asteptat cam mult. ... "sa se intample ceva minunat". LOL Ce prostie. Singurele lucruri care s-au "intamplat", le-am creat io, cu mainile mele. Ok, El s-a intamplat. A picat din cer - dar mi-a picat in cap, si am si acum ditai cucuiu. Si bine am facut ca n-am crezut, ca prea stralucea numa pe-o parte. Era rugina pe la incheieturi. Cel mai frumos lucru care mi s-a intamplat e si cel mai trist. O neintelegere clar, dar nu a mea, ca io am inteles din prima. In momente din alea e al dracului de neconvenabil sa fii destept. Si poate si mai neconvenabil sa decizi sa-ti tii gura. Cand am decis oare asta? Unii inca ma stiu de frica. De ce-oi fi decis tocmai atunci? N-am gasit ceva mai bun de facut din dragoste? Din dragoste pt cine? Pe cine am iubit eu mai mult in povestea asta? Pe "mama", probabil - adica pe cealalta femeie. Aia singura, si batrana, si speriata de singuratate, si competitie. LOL. Flatant ca a crezut asta. Eu renuntasem deja, din prima. Sperand ca macar ea o sa ma iubeasca. Guess what? Nici n-a observat.


Am cam supracompensat, vad. Daca sunt asa desteapta, cum de nu ma prind? Cum de fac greseli stupide? Cum de vreau chestii imposibile? Ma simt nesigura, pacat de neiertat in lumea mea. Nesigura pe mine.
Ma indoiesc ca 'totu va fi bine', pt ca ma simt epuizata - si dc nu eu, atunci cine o sa faca totul sa fie bine, eh?

E atat de complicat sa fiu eu. As vrea sa fiu altcineva. Cineva care nu s-a gandit niciodata cine o sa fie maine. Cineva care e mereu la fel, care vede toate casele patrate si acoperisurile triungiulare. Era mult mai simplu cand nu stiam cine sunt.
As fi putut fi oricine.