Life sometimes functions like a waterfall flowing backwards into the sky. It seems to take away everything from you no matter the efforts you put into stopping it. Thing is, most of the fault is ours. Truth is, we"re dying. Both a natural and a spiritual death. Our carelessness of youth is melting and now we are slowly becoming what we have for years feared: our parents. Slow, damp, hideous and pitiful creatures uncapable of the tiniest display of affection. It might not be your case, and I pray to whatever god will hear that itll never be but I think Im slipping into that direction. I try to fight of course but I"m just driftwood swept away by the flood.
But you see, I suppose this is what being an adult means. To be always sceptic, always unhappy and critical of others.
I remember my dreams as a child, I wanted a cat and a nice home whose door Id open only to whom I want. I wanted a girl for whom to cook and whose hand to hold. Now here I am, filling notebooks with words that ring hollow as the cavity within my chest while I desperately wander the earth. Sometimes this self imposed exile from the world fells almost physical, like having a rock on your chest, sometimes you can actually feel yourself breathing slower and slower.

So we ran. We kept running from a place to another. And what do we have to show for it? Some memories, some photos. Maps of the places we ve been to, tattooed on our faces, that can be seen as rarerly as we smile. We wandered around boutiques looking for things we could never buy. I thought nature heals the soul. I thought that at least the sea or the oceans would help in some way. But everything is temporary. You feel good for a while and then you get back to being yourself. Its like this desperation has its own immune system, letting you feel good for a while, before crushing you back into sullen sadness.

And then theres another thing. As I told you before I sometimes get the feeling that we are starved for affection but dont know how to receive it from the few people willing to share some with us. The world feds us an alternative to reality. An over romanticized life where people take leaps of faith, and are capable of inhuman sacrifices for us. And we want that. We yearn for it. So we strive to be those people in movies, or find them and force them into our life. But these are just sand-like  illusions. In order to be happy you have to lack a sudden amount of intelligence or to have low standards. And sometimes it feels that we"ve gone too far overboard. That we ve become something that has to rationalize everything instead of feeling it and judging it by intuition.

I am tired in all honesty. Of lieing, of running, of never really fitting in, wherever I go. Im tired of giving advice while my own life is a goddamn wreck. Of switching languages and clothes and faces in order to lose trace of a "me" that I no longer like or recognize. I feel like the contours of my personality sometimes blurr and I start to blend with the hungry misery of the world. im tired of writing about it while it doesnt really make much difference after all.

I sometimes dream of parties on the rooftops of the cities. Or deep within their stomachs. I dream of completely abandoning everything I know and settling down somewhere to adopt a child and forget about everything. And be forgotten. And it frustrates me beyond words that I cant do that. Not yet. So what is there to do?

Nothing really. I suspect that we are at an age where safety and silence are denied to us. We are at that point in life where we just have to go through it all. Like the survivors of an eathquake, pushing through the rubble so that one day we can see the light again.
I think were connected somehow, you know. Like spiritual twins, trying to be decent people in a sinister environment. I feel a deep affection and it tears me into a million pieces that I cannot really protect you from the blows you have to suffer. But I do love you, and if you went crazy Id probably become an alcoholic after and all our struggle would be for nothing. I think we deserve to be an example for everyone we know. Stories that will in the end nurture envy and admiration. Not as they might do it now, simply because we get to travel. But as whole, for becoming everything we set out to be. Silent and tranquil, completely isolated of the diabolical madness of the world.
All in all, keep fighting. Its not about them seeing you defeated, its just you suffered too much until now to not win in the end.

Past Midnight

I got out on the balcony. In the distance, white clouds flashed colors in silent lightning. The gods must have had a banquet. All smiling and laughing without a care in the world. I was one of them all my life but that night I lay on earth watching them. I drank a beer. Dark. And lit a cigarette. I felt heavy, like my organs were made of lead and they were about to fall like ripe apples on the floor of my stomach. The pressing weight of solitude. I wondered how fit I would be if I could exercise it. Like pushing weights in the gym. I felt my skin prickle.
Another night in which I m folded by the cool breeze, like a dark pancake filled with Guinness beer.
I thought of all the trains and planes that brought me where I am. Indifferent. Inert. Metallic teachers forcing me into experience.
That evening I felt like a corpse being brought here to hide from the sun forever. Dead, in the heart of the Renaissance.
Outside my window, the cars were lined up silently like soldiers going to war. A mechanical order to safe keep the flesh. The walking fortresses of uncountable living souls.
Trumpets rang in my ears. Dark night of the soul. I am running. Like a wounded animal. Like a scared child. Like a metaphor of fear. I am running from the cold of the continent. Of the whole world. Running from endless hours of labor. From a house with lawn and garage. From two children and their aspirations, with them unborn yet. I am running from the sun. My own god and protector. But to what good?
In a month or so I ll be off living in Alexandria, on the rippling sands of Egypt. But the cold follows. Slowly, it catches up. By January it will be freezing there as well. Where will I go from there? How long until I ll get tired? Until my shoes are worn out?
I am too young to accept defeat yet in the end it seems more and more inevitable. I wanted endless summer but whatever I do, snow swallows the desert within my ribs.
When the cold will dress me in its blue and purple garments I will know it is time to go home. But what is home these days? A hole in the ground on some secluded hill. My body, orphaned of life, will remain a stiff doll left to say: This was I, Marius Cristian, I did my best.
And I will sleep forever cradled by the sound of rain.

The Richest man in Babylon

I have reached Babylon. No trees. No grass. The buildings looked down on me and it seemed like there was some sort of ancient delight weaved into them. Like a peaceful sort of magic. The city itself seemed to smile as if he himself had witnessed uncountable smiles and embraces. And in a way he trully had. Theres warmth embroided in the rock, the glass, the asphalt. The streets soar with noise.
Spaniards on sidewalks talking hastly like birds on branches. Hissing the words, they sip the air and grin. Some of them dancing to the sound of a distant guitar. Wonderful people baked in the Sierras. Bathed in the Mediteranean.
A french couple is kissing beneath a terasse, their lips bound together like a scar of content. They share wine and ignore the rest of the world. Their arms building a house for them. One painted in silent afection.
Americans pace the streets and alleyways beyond stop signs and red lights. Oblivious of any laws of traffic, running and laughing like savage children. They make such characters. I love to hear them. "Definitely. Sure thing. Damn right." These little gods of the planet, their confidence blooming beneath the sun, are marvelous to watch.
And then there s the easties.
Beautiful Ukrainian girls giggling in a heartbreaking beautiful but strange and savage manner. As they pass by they know that their mere presence decorates the city.
Romanians curse along. Aloud. Double chinned and fat bellied. With pursed mouths, stained by wine or sangria. One moment they"re angry, the next the hug each other. An army of Santas on vacation.
The Turks walk gently the streets like dispossessed sultans contemplating them like a long lost empire. They sometimes look around and sigh. Some have black circles around their eyes and fuzzy moustaches. Standing ferm like statues of a Zorro fallen from grace.
German blonde and irish ginger. African ebony and Asian lemon. Skins of all shapes, sizes and colours. From Japan to Portugal. From Norway to South Africa.
The whole globe poured its people in these cities like a divine congregation of all the Nations of the world.
I walk these narrow streets, drunk on variety. My eyes shifting from a place to another. From man to woman and back. Like a schizophrenic. Can t help but inhale wildly. the everchanging beauty. hats, bags, bracelests, tattoos. Beautiful people, hideous people. All passing marvels like splintered memories of a life not yet lived.
I sit in cafes, restaurants, on roof tops or river banks. Chewing raw meat and sipping wine or eating cakes and cappuccino. Doing nothing extraordinary yet rewarding with narcotic satisfaction. All these things help me remember that nobody lives as intense as they claim. Carpe Diem is a vague and blank concept as the pages it is written or posted on. However, the rare evenings when you can go to sleep smiling completely charmed by the events of the day, make life bearable. They make it worth enduring days, months, years of being chocked by the dust of everyday life. Spoil yourself every now and then and DO WHATEVER YOU LIKE.

Iddle Worship

It is said that a man without tattoos or scars is invisible to the gods. To which gods, I have no idea. A woman however is never invisible neither to gods nor men. I ve been called a whoremonger, deceiver, player, sugarcoating bastard, liar, devil, monster. Once or twice in my face, and perhaps a hundred times more behind it. All the filth that men can spill. That s why I don t have many men as friends. All because of my strange religion.
In my short years I have found that a woman is the only god worth praying to. Praying as an act of admiration, of reverence, not one of begging. The difference is essential. I found that is infinitely better to adore a woman that it is to do so with a car, a phone, or a sports team. You can adore art, for what it wakes in you, but it will rarely provide an enduring fascination.
So I worshipped. I sacrificed. I bent but I was never broken. I changed the godess when I longer received her favor like any sane man should do with his. My loyalty though episodic, was strongly stubborn. Sometiems I made mistakes and I suffered to consequences.
My religion is mad, but in its daunting chaos it is the most sincere of all. I worship with complete abandonment. Her smiles, her tears, her screams, her flushing red face. Her violent outbursts and cat like affection. All are the fruit of my prayers. And these in themselves are the reward of my religion. Imediate and incomparably beautiful.

Sometimes we drink, sometimes we dream.

Lipit de balustrada unui balcon obscur. Intre buze o tigara dispare progresiv in scrum. Cat de nedrept de usoara e viata mea! Uitat de jocurile zeilor pe un acoperis, greoi dupa 3 shoturi si 2 cocktailuri. Mai e cineva langa, nu imi vine nici un nume in minte. I-am dat o tigara si stam amandoi pe tigle ca pe o bordura stilata mumificati intr-o seara placuta. Vorbim in italiana. Aici nu mai sunt Marius Cristian, doar Chris. Iar ea nu mai e Alexandra, doar Alessia. 

Amandoi straini. Doua lichide cumva intr-un pahar nou. Aceleasi substante, alte forme. 

In blocul alaturat un baietas bubuit pe MDMA incearca fara succes sa porneasca o orgie. Radem. N-ar fi rea o boaba acum, dar macar avem un pic de bere rece. O ultima tigara. Sunt obosit. Abia mai pot vorbi:

"- A fost o seara excelenta."

"- Vor fi si altele." 

Ma asez imbracat in pat, cu fata in sus si pentru o clipa tavanul intunecat da impresia ca sunt in spatiu. 

Cateva minute mai tarziu, o silueta isi taraste picioarele obturand rafalele de neon care intra prin obloane. Se intinde in pat ceva mai departe de mine. A trecut mult timp pana am adormit. In timp, un miros alcoolic a inceput treptat sa umple camera. Si totusi, In mirosul ala dubios de crama, intunericul a fost mai putin rece. Asa am adormit amandoi, cu zambind in bezna fara a scoate un cuvant, fara a ne atinge macar cu un deget. In noaptea aia am visat croaziere, zboruri si strazi nesfarsite. A fost o zi buna pentru a fi in viata.

"Ambuteliaj"

Batrani merg pe asfalt cu mainile sudate. Adolescenti fumeaza si arunca cu saruturi pe obraz unii in altii. Neobisnuit. Nu sunt obisnuit cu tandreturi sincere. Am urcat in masina. Masina a urcat pe autostrada.
L anima vola intr-o piscina de de aer conditionat. Oprim iar. Clipesc violent.
O masina de epoca trece pe langa noi. Cuplu stereotipic. El e imbratisat de o camasa impecabila. Doua accesorii notabile: ochelari dubiosi si zambet de revista. Ea, ochelari rotunzi si sal.
Radio. P!nk. Ceva despre "te iubesc dar vreau sa te omor". Foste prietene. Am ras la geamul lasat complet silabe de amuzament alunecad afara. Alaturi, in alta masina, doi copii se uita la mine si rad si ei. Mi-au citit gnadurile cumva. Sau poate nu. Suntem singurii care rad intr-un fluviu lucios, metalic, de kilometrii.
And I miss you like de deserts miss the rain. Blocajul continua. Un paso avanti, due indietro. Ne miscam un pic. Pe langa noi trec masini cu nume calde, de fete. Octavia, Felicia, Megane, Aprilia. Toate masinile ar trebui sa aiba nume de fete. Anda, Silvia, Iulia. Toate imbracate in caroserii elegante ce sclipesc in soarele verii si motoare de al carui sunet discret te indragostesti iremediabil.
James Blunt. Ceva cu soldati-scantei si vieti de revolver care stranuta spre cer. Bonfire heart. Ies jumatate pe geam si imi incordez corpul intr-o privire deasupra campiei nesfarsite de masini.
Se aude Empire of the sun dintr-o masina. Led Zeppelin din alta. mai in fata, ceva mai vechi. Lady de la Modjo. Sau Moguai. Trece iar cuplul cu masina de epoca. Trebuie sa inchiriez si eu una intr-o zi. Spre Mangalia, spre Greci, spre Mediterana. Lenny Kravitz in bord, eu in dreapta, Tu la volan. Oricine ai fi tu, cu conditia sa zambesti, sa tipi, sa razi zgomotos. Fara sal, fara rochie in buline.
The more I see, the more I know, the more I"d like to let it go. Autostrada e o salata mare de muzica intr-un castron urias de asfalt tabla si carne.
Au trecut 4 ore. Am mers 2 km. Sunt terminat. Nu ma deranjeaza sa alerg fara destinatie dar sa astept ceva necunoscut e zdrobitor. Inchid ochii, usor adorm.

Pilot de Piatra

Fumez cate o tigara in fiecare noapte. Doar una. Inspir toxina pana nu ramane decat scrum, ca un bat de nisip la capatul ei. Expir pe nari. Vreau sa imi arda interiorul. Afara, in strada, in fiecare seara o femeie se taraste beata pana la usa.
batranii iau pastile. Tinerii fumeaza ceai. Toti suntem bolnavi cumva de o anxietate ascunsa. O disperare muta care mangaie inainte de a strangula. Mergem la sala, citim. Ne straduim pe cat posibil sa scoatem ceva interesant din corpurile noastre. Traim in amintirea unui ieri stralucit, uimitor. Incercam sa il multiplicam intr-un vag si plictisitor prezent. Uneori vreau sa raman undeva, sa fur ceva memorabil din viata asta. Fie ca traiesc sub pamant sau deasupra orasului , sunt tot un soarece, cautand mereu un pic de timp de mestecat. un scop oricat de obscur.
Suntem neinspirati cred. Stam cu bricheta la marginea unei prapastii de benzina incapabili de a porni un incendiu.
Mereu intinsi in masini care ne conduc departe de ce suntem. Am mers ani intregi, pana ce incaltarile au ajuns fasii de material. Mi-e teama ca ceaiul imi va face acelasi lucru sufletului. Ma dezorienteaza uneori sa vad bucati din lume zdrobite de greutatea dragostei in timp ce eu trec nepasator cu mainile in buzunar, usor precum o pana.

Aparatorii Patriei

O asteptam la metrou. Corpul meu indurerat de oboseala. Muschii se aplecau si se arcuiau sub piele. Ma gandeam ce sa ii spun ce sa fac. Credeam ca toate se vor dizolva cand a aparut. Mi-a pus mana delicata pe umar si am sarutat-o pe obraz. Am simtit o greutate zdrobitoare. Eram leoarca de singuratate.
Am mers un timp Apoi ne-am asezat pe o banca. Avea o frumusete eleganta. Tipul pentru care te invidiaza prietenii si parintii te ameninta sa ai grija de ea. Rochie rosie. Buze rosii. Eu eram ascuns intr-un tricou cu craniu iar un lant atarna lenes pe o parte. Am incercat sa gesticulez ceva dar incheietura mainii nu mai era mangaiata de bratara de piele, mai mult prinsa in loc ca de o alta mana invizibila. Am primit-o cum primesc un oras nou. Regret acum, trebuia sa fi facut ordine in inima mea, in resedinta ei de vara.
M-am simtit ca un animal in audienta zeilor. Parfumul meu chinuindu-se sa tina ascuns mirosul orelor de drum. Eram nelinistit si a observat.Sunt mereu calm, de ce nu am putut fi si atunci? Poate a fost soarele incruntat, poate pentru ca nu era muzica sa ma calmeze decat cea a masinilor in trecere. Oamenii treceau pe langa si se uitau la cuplul asta straniu. Trebuie sa ma fi simtit ca baiatul acela Alladin din filmele disney. un cersetor. Dar ce cerseam in ziua aia?
A trecut un timp si a trebuit sa plece. In ziua aia mai mult ca niciodata am vazut cum e. Am privit mult timp dupa ce a disparut pe scarile rulante. La metrou. Lucrurile se sfarsesc de regula unde incep. Am stat acolo un timp gandindu'ma cum afectiunea, pasiunea, obsesia salbatica, toate lucrurile bune in viata traiesc oriunde in lume. Pe Sub pamant in metrouri, in avioane deasupra norilor, pe vase mangaiate de valuri. Se plimba prin cabluri din cabine telefonice, alearga in taxiuri pe strazi sau se leagana pe cai ferate. Suntem toti masini purtand in noi un pic de dragoste, uneori spre destinatii concise alteori le purtam aiurea pe sub oceane vaste de neon in necunoscut.