Untitled

Untitled

Through the marshes of life,

As stretched as they were,

I built myself a highway

I drove, without taking turns.

I ran like a lunatic;

I didn’t stop

 to speak to my sullen heart.

Until one day, until it ran away

Oh how I missed m heart,

like I miss the smell of May.

Years went by, youth flew away,

Until one July, she came back again.

Her body all a sore, her wounds gushed dreams

She told me:

Oh dearest! There’s so much to be seen!

The hourglass has been cruel

All the time I trapped myself inside of you.

I don’t care now If I live or die

Cos’ through my friends I lived a thousand lives.

While  locked within your chest,

Cowardice tucked me in, each night in bed.

But since I haven’t been around

I touched the skies, I bit the ground,

I drank the wines of paradise,

I celebrated my demise,

I lay with hearts

under the starry skies.

We flew across this pretty world

We wore our scars, we took our oaths.

But you, dearest, still are here,

And the years have not steered you clear.

You cling to knowledge, not to life

You run races that are not yours, nor mine.

While I roamed the land with madness and glee

You yearned for jobs, cars and degrees.

Oblivious, Looking life through a keyhole

While we were out in ecstasy and awe.

We loved and laughed and marveled

Drew life from herbs and arts and lovers

We stole from hogs

and laughed at dogs.

 Foxes played violin

Oh how I lived in awe and sin!

Still…

I can’t believe how lonely you have been

The Beautifully Depressed

This is the manifest of the unhappy. And by unhappy I don't necessarily mean miserable, drenched in sorrow individuals; just...devoid of happiness, like a silhouette displaying a periodic smile before it withers away and loses itself in the crowds. The ones that seem to live in other worlds. If you think about it, it's rather amusing that the ones that really cling to their souls are the ones that seem soulless, apparently lacking any emotion like beautiful empty carcasses.
You know, those people that you see in the bus, gazing lost, outside the window as if they're looking for something. The kind that remain silent and smiling in large groups of people that speak in loud voices, like flocks of seagulls. People that don't take life for granted; that have dreams and ideals yet are decent enough not to step on others to get to them. The ones that wake up in the morning afraid they're going to live; that pretend that everything is good and well without constantly complaining to others. People that honestly don't know what happiness is anymore.  People that make you feel good and don't do it as a favor you have to return. People that fascinate you somehow, yet you never get to know them. All you find out are things about them. Fragments of life that you never fully understand. These are the kind that never make life unpleasant with their petty aspirations; that don't talk about fucking X or having Y's money. People that are not disfigured by malice and crippled by envy. People whose sympathies don't change over night. People that are as cruel, as mean and as just as everybody else but without taking all that on the innocent. People that even if they are
People that have given up the hope of finding a real job, being happy and having someone to love. People that feel alone even when surrounded by others. People that are awkward and imperfect. THat are too skinny, too fat, too slow, that don't drink, or drink too much, have small boobs or are gay. People that bottle up happy memories just to feel glad from time to time. People that hate being told to be happy as if it were a button that you somehow forgot to push. People that only wish to feel alive more often in a world where the dead laugh and play in the sun.  People that are more impressed by the sound of a piano rather than a "killer baseline". People that are artists without having any talent. People that are works of art. That write, paint, sing, dance and make wonderful things out of their sadness.   
People that are...still human.
But this secret cast of the beautifully depressed can never live.


Dictionary Reference:

"Not all those who wander are lost"

Daca e o expresie care poate intruchipa efortul neconditionat cat si infinit in fata oricarei granite atunci aceea este fuga mintii. E de ajuns sa te opresti o clipa si sa incerci sa iti golesti mintea de absolute orice gand. Incercarea ta va esua lamentabil in fata unui bombardament inestimabil de idei ganduri imagini. Involuntar, percepi universul de la cea mai mica boaba pana in culmile sale. Vei vedea cum esti coplesit de imensitatea de locuri, evenimente ,culori ,emotii, oameni, fetze, respiratii pana la simple batai de inima.  Totul exista si e la discretia unui impuls catre creier. De fapt mintea fuge atat de repede incat te vei gasi incapabil sa opresti orice sprint al ei. In fata acestei entitati in devenire, constientul tau e doar un caine ce alearga dupa o masina, traind mirajul constant al implinirii. Dar tu stii deja asta, stii cand incercai sa inchizi pe acel Cineva prin sertarele obscure ale memoriei tale. Ai trait calvarul si ai gustat din plin durerea. Stii ca amintirea e uneori mai reala decat mancarea pe care o plescai nepasator sau pasii aleatori pe care ii faci in viata. In final mintea umana face un singur lucru. Simte. Dar nu face asta pe cont propriu. Nu suntem nici zei nici schizoizi. Aceasta interactiune continua intre constient/subconstient si materia inerta din afara lor ne ofera noua sentimentul; binecuvatarea mintii odihnite, lipsita de pacatele idealismului. 

Imagineaza-ti o lume in care nu am fi damnatii eterni ai propriei nostre minti. O lume in care ura, dragostea, avaritia, altruismul, furia si iertarea ar putea fi reprimata printr-un simplu zambet. Imagineaza-ti lumea in care o simpla floare e de ajuns sa faca primavera. Totul e mechanic. Nimic arbitrar. Pe aceasta sumbra si deprimanta temelie zace noroiul in care ne scaldam indiferenti. Ne zbatem zilnic la linia nebuniei si printr-un efort continuu fugim catre capatul celalat numai pentru a ne trezi din nou la margine. Majoritatea au ghinionul sa nu treaca niciodata linia, existenta fiind un ciclu finit marcat prin schimburi. Schimburi de moneda, schimburi de oameni schimburi de sine. Nebunia in schimb, nu pretinde nimic. Eliberatoare, ca mesia ce intarzie sa apara de secole va sfarsi intocmai ca El. Batjocorita, condamnata iar discipolii ei stigmatizati si izolati de societate. E intrun fel un artificiu mostenit voluntar( sau nu) de la pseudospiritualitatea rasei noastre. Intr-un final nu oamenii sunt creati in chipul si asemanarea zeilor. Ci invers. Fie ca vorbim de o entitate cosmica sau de un lider politic orice idol e cioplit de mana imperfecta a omului. Prin urmare, pasibil de judecata iar ratiunea sa indoielnica. In starea actuala umanitatea este singura. Confuza de propria provenienta, instrainata de contact inteligent cu alta creatura, intreaga-I existenta sta pe stalpii instabili ai teoriei. In absenta unei instante care sa ii valideze sau sa Ii condamne scopul, omenirea e libera. Si ce mod mai extatic de a-ti sarbatori libertatea neconditionata decat prin distrugere? E demersul sublim al unei creature confuze, nesigura de unde a venit si catre ce se indreapta. Ghidata de frica, umanitatea de cele mai multe ori isi trage concluziile din materia inerta in care traieste; in sensul strict biologic al cuvantului. 

In final, cuvantul asta ciobit de inteles, minte, e doar o cheie pe care fiecare din noi o avem; dar niciunul din noi nu a gasit o usa pe care o deschide.

Gandire Colectiva

Milioane. Intr-un sigur cadavru. Unul peste altul, fiecare trage de bucatica lui de carne, mancand mizeria celui de deasupra. Nu cred ca exista o ierarhie mai stricta decat cea a viermilor. O lupta mai acerba pentru supravietuire, pentru indestulare pentru a face singurul lucru pe care il stii. Sa te hranesti, sa ai. Niciodata nu e de ajuns. Cadavrul este o lume care ar putea sustine in virtutea unui consum rational un numar mare de viermi pentru o perioada mai mare decat le permite speranta de viata. Insa undeva in aliniamentul genetic al viermelui o piesa a sarit lasand un gol imens. Un gol care niciodata nu se umple. In mod paradoxal golul ala este partea chintesentiala a viermelui, il defineste in totalitate, ii confera scopul existentei dezgustatoare. Asemenea unui infirm acesta se taraste, eviscereaza, ingera, digera intr-un ritm alert, independent de ceilalti. Intr-un fel fiecare vierme e suveranul cadavrului in care soarta l-a aruncat aleatoriu. Cel putin in ceea ce serveste drept constient pentru el. In fapt, tot ce are viermele sunt instincte. Instincte in baza carora orice miscare a lui este un demers spre a gasi saturatia. Evident nu va veni niciodata. Dar asta nu il descurajeaza pentru ca el nu se va opri niciodata sa contempleze, sa se indoiasca daca intr-adevar exista acea stare sublima a saturatiei. Pur si simplu va scurma si va manca si va defeca la nesfarsit pana in ziua in care corpul lui va inceta sa mai asculte, devenind un alt cadavru. Astfel din motorul biologic perpetuu va deveni materia prima insignifianta a altora. E natura viermelui sa creada ca tot ce se gaseste in jur e facut sa ii serveasca scopului si prin urmare nu se va da in laturi de la nimic pentru a-si satia foamea. Pentru a-si implini scopul. Din pacate, in mod innascut ceilalti viermi sunt constienti de ambitia individului si se simt amenintati. Propriul scop desi identic cu al rasei dar distinct prin intrinsecitate astfel prinde o noua dimensiune. Involuntar viermii sunt antrenati in mecanismul competitivitatii, care desi simplu are intotdeauna un character interminabil. In acest razboi al carnii si vointei, ai doar doi aliati: Marimea si pozitia. Ambii sunt factori care din punct de vedere biologic sunt aleatorii si distribuiti in mod inegal si disproportionat. Astfel daca prima muscatura ai luat-o de jos sansele sa fii calcat si sa te indopi cu resturile celor de sus sunt mai mari decat cele de a urca neoprit peste alti viermi si de a te infrupta cu carnea rosie neatinsa de gurile grabite ale altora. Astfel absolute totul in aceasta societate macabra este un sitem neintrerupt de consum individual unde propria supravietuire este un joc incontrolabil de sanse. Prin urmare inamicul adevarat al viermelui nu este cel pe care il percepe drept concurrent la masa lui zilnica. Ci este el insasi in efortul sau de a duce la capat un scop incontestabil, manifestat in specie, pe care el insasi nu dispune de mijloacele rationale sa il justifice dar lucreaza in virtutea lui neglijand orice alt aspect al realitatii. Si asta e virtutea tuturor fiintelor vii.

Being Marius Cristian

                                                       

                Perhaps the greatest touristic invention of all time would be seeing through the eyes of another person. A new and inviting world for you to observe and wander through. I can, if you have the pleasure, introduce you to mine. A seat behind the hollow spheres that shape the very aspect of the letters you are reading. So what do we see?

We see birds cowering from buildings, for they know that the will of man is the biggest cataclysm ever to fall upon this earth. We see fields of metal grinning with their glass eyes. We see an ocean drenched in the salt of our tears. We see priests locking churchyards in the night, their hands dragging bags stuffed with greed. We see carwashes, wiping the blood of the poor from strange machines. We see children building smoke shelters to shield their dreams. We see women crumble at the feet of savage beasts; the same beasts that teach us to be civilized. We see nations of two prospering today only to turn into empires of one tomorrow. We see the sun set faster each day yet we have nothing to trick him to linger a bit more. We see lights across the horizon, but none of them show any sign of a future. We live alone on the edge of a knife, too weak to press, to cowardly to fight. We see houses yet not a home. We see people yet none a soul.

Contrareclama

Inainte de a incepe, as vrea sa clarific doua lucruri:

1.   Aici voi posta articole, povestiri, eseuri etc asa ca nu arunca cu pietre daca te simti  jignit sau ceva, majoritatea continutului e fictiv; oarecum.
2. Majoritatea intrarile pe aici vor cam fi in engleza. Daca tii neaparat sa aflii si motivul e pentru ca majoritatea cartilor pe care le-am citit sunt in engleza, prin urmare exprimarea mea e dupa cum vei vedea, mai putin defectuoasa in aceasta limba. Asadar daca nu te prea pricepi nu-ti bate capul. Asta nu presupune ca daca tii neaparat sa iti lasi impresiile de o valoare inestimabila pe aici nu o poti face si in romana, sau franceza sau germana sau ce limba crezi tu de cuviinta. Sunt cat se poate de deschis in privinta asta asa cum sper sa fii si tu. Acestea fiind spuse, iar tu fiind de accord cu termenii si conditiile putem trece mai departe.