My mistakes were made for you

Each year in December I celebrate with a down tone abuse, The Great Fire. The day I turned myself to ashes. It was the day I angered my heart and brought down on me the hatred of all the gods I have in my head. They turned me into an animal. The gave me the hunger. For what I thought I had to let go of, the punishment was to carry it with me always.
And so, each week for two years now, I dreamed of prickled tattooed skin. Of lips like airports on which my kisses never land anymore. My entire world is on hold. The object of my religion is lost somewhere, on the bottom of the sea. In a town I still call home from time to time.
All this thinking has corroded me somehow. Transformed my emotional landscape into an industrial park where worry flows from factories of doubt.
I was cursed with the conviction that there is fun in fright. Beauty in terror. A sublime wonder in every attraction. Now that I look closer, the flowers watered by this belief always wither before their time.
Days are spent beautifully but in the company of blind horses and sinister birds. My body will migrate to Budapest, Berlin, Monaco, and eventually die in Montevideo. It peered from rooms at mountains dressed in snow. And from this body, this windowless room, my soul peered outside.
It often thinks that my mistakes were made for you. That you are the reason I still play with the last of the shadow puppets. It believes in secret messages that only you can get...and sincerely hopes you ignore them.
I have proved to be poison, time after time. And I am conscious of my nature although I completely despise it. I am the shadow of the devil on a seashore, but my coat hangers are filled with angel wings. I fear sometimes that I am nothing but form and no substance.
That my toxic dreams of us hanging out clothes to dry under a foreign vanilla sky are just sick fabrications of a man obsessed with torture. His own and of the things he loves.
I have hanged out on rooftops for centuries drinking from crystal glasses. I drank from plastic  bottles on never ending empty sidewalks. I played with cats and they played with me.
I have seen the finale of a thousand lives. I have seen snow bury me and melt on me in cold showers. Yet you are my oldest memory.
I remembered you at 3 when I fell of a horse. At 13 when I slipped silently into a coma. At 3 a.m when my arm hurts. On the 31st at the funeral of each year. 
I remembered you from uncountable time before I met you. You are my catastrophe. The voice that crumbles the buildings I plan in my head. The wind the pulled me from little Tuscany. The voice that made me abandon Rome, Lausanne, Marseille Moscow and probably will throw me out of Birmingham as well. The desperate hope that returns me to my home every once in a while.
To watch with blood shot eyes, the flags on our streets lying dead in the morning.
Yea, each time I'm home. I hope. Nothing more. Because I have rules by which I function. I know that I deserve what I have been given. The loss, the confusion, the tragedy. I earned each bit of it. This heart is on quarantine. I made it ill trying to forget everything. It will not function anymore. It will not let anyone else in.
Now, at 6 am in the morning, I effortlessly remember: my whole existence this past couple of years was but a resurrection call. But the dead should stay dead shouldn't they?

Given to Fly.

Defeat is never easy. Especially if you survive it. If you're forced to get up and move on. And I moved alright. All of my life I have been moving.
Depression does not make me inert. It makes me light. And light things often have the tendency of being carried by the wind.

I woke up one morning with a stomach full of whiskey and a bag full of clothes. Beneath me, the ocean hit the rocks like fists to a jaw. I remembered all the times I thought I was going to die. All those days engulfed by nothingness. It all seems like a stupid joke that nobody even got to hear. And I'm glad.
I'm glad I left. I'm glad I was the cynic this time. That I shook my head in the face of alluring promises. Now, in my cola stained blue jeans I am slowly getting born into a new world. One in which I'm not racing for some obscure purpose. One in which people laugh and ask if I'm American. A new world. An electrical world where blue velvet skies are shouting proud thunders like national anthems.
in this paradise, I am sold to the radio waves. To the magic of perfectly orchestrated names. My ten pence dreams dismantle and disappear into thin air like cobwebs on fire. I am slowly forgetting the soft and sad dreams of summer. Of being in wrong places at the right time.
I left no more room to longing for the sea. Now I sit and watch the ocean and my mind flies across the Atlantic to a future. A good one. In warm weather and beautiful company. Where everything is new and strange in infinitely charming ways. And I will not be here forever either.

A passing thought in a Lobby

Fitzgerald once said that you can never know exactly how much space you occupy in someones life. And he was right. You can only guess once in a while, but it's all just a stab in the dark.
At times, I feel discouraged by this neverending uncertainty. I want to believe that disorder is my lover but at times I grow so tired of it.
I'm 25. I am at the age where life should have unraveled its meaning already yet I wander around the continent, confused and misguided. An insect that lost its head and yet continues to live without any direction.
Sometimes, I get angry at myself for allowing disappointment to seep discreetly into my heart. I know that I am to blame for these emotional crashes. But it is so hard to come to terms with the world regarding the way you give your affection. I live the lives I read about in books. I move, I laugh, I breathe in deep and smile. At times I have no sense of what is real and what is not.
I sleep less and less because i want my eyes to encompass so much more than dreams. I want to devour all this passing beauty that surrounds me and I want it to nourish this soul that hungers desperately for shreds of love. I wonder sometimes if love truly can shine over affection. But who knows what love is anymore? After a thousand battles, one only sees death.

Here I am in the heart of England, my mind flying, on a plane to Berlin.
I have an apartment to shelter me from the violent summer sun. A house to warm me when the mountain breathes out the winter snow. But it/s nothing.
I am lost. I have been walking for years. Each time I stop I'm swallowed by nostalgia and regret. There must be a refuge somewhere. Somewhere warm and...I don't even know.

Vineri. 13

Intr-o dupa-amiaza m-am trezit, cu ochii inrositi de oboseala, si m-am holbat prelung in oglinda.
Nici un fir alb de par, nici o urma pronuntata de riduri. Dar sunt batran. Consumat de vise excesive care se detoneaza de peretii realitatii precum masini sinucigase.

In prezenta luminii plictisite, mi-am inchis nasturii rabdator. Mi-am citit cartile, vazut filmele si scris randurile. Am baut cafeaua si berea neagra si aruncat o prelata rosie peste tot ce am sub coaste ca totul sa fie macar in aparenta viu. In fiecare zi in alt loc. In fiecare loc, golit de oameni. Golit de vreun ideal bine definit. Ascultand Cave, Cohen, Dylan sau Waits. De fapt ii aud doar.

Intr-un final nu are importanta unde esti atat timp cat esti relativ sanatos si relativ liber. Viata functioneaza dupa aceleasi reguli oriunde ai fi. Cunosti, te incanta, uiti. Totul in cea mai eficienta orchestratie a unei cauzalitati efemere. Existi in fractiuni neglijabile de prezent. In conversatii, in saruturi, in oftat. Cand buzele se racesc si bagajele sunt facute, ai murit. Cand te muti sau pleci undeva, mori intr-un loc pentru a te naste in altul. Depresia, dezgustul, dezamagirea. Toti le gustam in nuante atat de diferite. Pe unii ii anesteziaza. Ii lasa inerti un timp. Pe altii ii arunca aleatoriu catre necunoscut.
Sunt zile in care beau sticle intregi fara a sarbatori ceva. Altele in care un pahar de vin inchide un intreg capitol de viata.
In cele din urma, te saturi sa fii o litera intr-o lume de cifre. Sa cauti Muzica pierduta in mari de zgomot. Obisnuiam sa ascult la nesfarsit zgomotul desi nu il intelegeam. Acum. e doar o tragedie fara sens. O filosofie a infinitului pentru oameni fara ocupatie.
Vad, fara indoiala, ca lumea continua sa existe cu sau fara aprobarea pulsului meu. Iar dragostea in sensul ei obscur continua sa traiasca in alte case, unde probabil e mai multa caldura si mai putina cerneala varsata, unde e mai multa mancare si mai putine tigari. Mai multa liniste si mai putina muzica.
Dar nu e chiar asa de rau. Mai am cativa ani pusi deoparte in care pot trai complet strain de disperare.

Untitled

From my window
I follow the planes
in and out of the Birmingham airport.
I wonder
where are all those people heading to.

Beer buzzed.
Hours before going to work.
I blame it on nothing.
Nothing is guilty of anything.
Rather...

I try to stand for a bit
but my battered feet are stinging.
I should move.
I should be moved.

I put on my angel uniform
and I go to work.
Tranquil and sighing,
I find myself to be a symetry
of questions without answers
and answers not asked for.

The radio mumbles something about 50 shades.
This body mimics some excitement.
Its mind, void of it.
Completely void.