Journal Entry 5

I`m so young and so tired.
measuring time so often
in acute stabs of pain.
Head aches, backpains, muscle burns.
My heart, either hectic or lazy
From loving too much or not at all.
I`m spending entire liftimes by the window,
watching the rain absently.
I stare incredously at the absurdity in the streets.
Sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I punch the wall.
Detached, I move through it all.

Ce as putea sa iti mai spun? E seara si e inceput de septembrie. Dincolo de geamul balconului asta, avioane lasa bretele albe peste un ocean de scanetei. Soarele coboara usor de pe cer cautand alte lucruri de facut, alti oameni in alte parti de privit. 

Cred ca o parte din sufletul meu locuieste mereu in balconul asta. Si cred ca nu sta singur aici. E asa ciudat sa-l vad aici, zambind. La acelasi geam de la care cand era copil, visa de-atea ori sa sara.
E placut sa-l vad, ani mai tarziu, privind in liniste in sus.

Ieri am trecut pe langa un restaurant. Inauntru era nunta si se auzea Another Love a lui Tom Odell. Nimeni nu parea sa stie despre ce era piesa. Imi venea sa ma duc inauntru si sa urlu: Prostilor! Doar pentru ca ceva are cuvantul dragoste in el nu inseamna ca are vreo urma de emotie. Nu vedeti?!?Ascultati! Ascultati...
Sunt atat de multe lucruri pe care nu le inteleg. Sau poate au sens pentru restul lumii dar nu pentru mine. De unde atata absurditate? De unde toate intelesurile?
Dar imi dau seama ca nu putem purta toti aceeasi marime la pantofi. Si poate aici idiotul sunt eu. Si imi vad de drum in liniste. Nu tip la nimeni. Ii las in pace sa se bucure de nunta lor. 

Blood Magic

There`s a raging summer in our photographs,
- an arsonists wet dream.
there`re chunks of our souls
- bit and chewed,
by the calming winds of June.

still hungry for some reason,
licking my lips before the neon light.
my ritual is dormant, but dreaming
of days when we were faces,
of the same artificial god.

So now I eat the animal
so that an animal I should remain.
Fearful of another era,
of your blood
flowing through my veins.

Rami

Eu, oceanul.
Sunt zile in care visez marea furtuna de foc. Cea pe care aproape am stins-o. Cea pe care am alergat-o in alte orizonturi. Imi amintesc de ea, nebuna, furioasa, prajind lumi in accese de furie. Imi amintesc de ea tatuata in nuantele unor limbi vii. Rosu, oranj, violet, culori ce se pierd precum accesorii pe sub cea mai eleganta piele.

Iar eu, oceanul, psihopat latent. am furat destui in adancuri.
Haosul meu compatibil. Ma intreb unde esti acum? Oare acum poti dormi? In dragostea mea nemarginita pentru oras, oare iti canta noaptea cand nu poti dormi muzica mea dementa? Ma auzi in zgomotul de frane si alte piese in frecare? Ma auzi in sirene si imi simti nelinistea? Sau in zgomotul ambulantelor. In ultimul timp ma simt uscat de imaginatie. Sunt atat de multe lucruri de spus in atat de putine moduri ramase. Pe fata mea inca e ceva benzina din tabliile nepasatoare ale vapoarelor.
Tu arzi. Eu ma evapor.

Introspectie

Zacea pe pat si ma fixa cu privirea. Incerca sa ghiceasca ce se intampla in spatele carnii mele.
A stat asa un timp, hipnotizata de lacuri peste care adorm bolte de foc, de cascade mute ce curg peste sticle reci de bere, de statui obscure al caror sens nu parea sa il inteleaga.
Am stat asa un timp, in pactul nostru secret, la etajul 7, deasupra limbilor de drum ce se ating la Piata Muncii. Iar eu ma priveam in reflexia verde a ochilor acelora curiosi.
Incantarea agresiva cu care am batut drumuri toata viata era stinsa din mine. Eram doar o radiografie zgariata de timp, agata pe sarma de rufe a unui balcon, prin care un strain se uita de vreo boala.
Am inchis ochii o clipa cu gandul la patul in care am ingropat primele depresii. La cetul care mi-a ars zile intregi prin filtre si bancnote.
Einsame Wandeln Still Im Sternensaal.
Inima imi batea in retragere si la fel ca valurile marii, intr-o zi m-am intors inapoi in larg.

Lumi Paralele

Clopotele Sfantului Edmund bateau zgomotos anuntand ora. Cineva deschide usa, iar de undeva din josul strazii, se auzeau timid manele.
Pe masa de lemn in carciuma din port zac halbe neterminate de bere. O silueta neagra de pe deal priveste spre el, sau spre macaralele care harjaie plictisite in port. Undeva la mii de kilometrii, pe plaja mediteranei, copii inca se chinuie sa puna pietre una peste alta mangaiati de soarele anemic al toamnei.

Cumva, toate gandurile duc inevitabil acasa. Pe malul propriei mele mari. La Sky View, unde acoperisul constantei se afiseaza mandru: Iti place ce vezi? Te intimideaza ca toate lucrurile astea vor fi aici mult timp dupa ce tu vei fi maturat? Probabil nu.
Pe aici nu vezi femei subnutrite din ai caror umeri ososi par sa iasa coarne. Sau poate aici sufera de alta foame sub hainele lor de piele. Cine poate sti? Intreaga lume pare multumita aici, singura ura pe care o au e cea pe care o cultivi tu in ele.

Poate e ceva in apa totusi. Corpurile lor pline par sa atraga doar fluturi. Sau poate drogurile cu care am venit de acasa imi intretin mirajul asta de luni de zile.
Imi amintesc vag, cineva imi spunea ca par un vis intunecat de indiferenta, cand zac la geam si privesc in golurile care umbla pe strada. Tornadele mele ce aduna secunde pe care le pierd intr-o ultima suflare calda.
Eram in Semanatoarea si as fi vrut sa le spun ca sunt pe moarte. Ca medicamentul meu e in roti, in sine si in aripi metalice.
Dar habar n-aveam ce gandeam in ziua aia. Viata Era o prostie.

Soul churning Sunday

Rock'n'roll. Seven years from high school and I am still my own favorite band. I'm still within crashing cars always a step before death. Always with drunk drivers laughing wildly out the window in comatose nights; In the company of stoned girls which smile and gesture like wild angels that came to slaughter our confidence. To poke holes in our eyes and leave us stunned and dreaming in their joyful embrace.

I'm stuck in a neverending adolescence. Writing, drinking, smoking. Doing my best to earn the smallest gesture of affection. Because I'm fucking dying. I'm starving for it. I'm running around like mad dog within the enclaves of the city. There are nights when i feel the cold hand gripping my shoulder, sinking its nails into my skin. Remorse, desire. all as shadows climbing the buildings once the last rays of light are asleep.
And a sense of pain. One that burns with the strenght of one thousand suns. Of countless bancontes thrown into the fire.
Within it, My soul is bouquet of dynamite waiting for the fuse to burn what I know of this world to an end. I'm waiting for a silent psychosis for some time now. One day i'll be in a nuthouse gathering roses for the nurses because even in my madest hours I am sentimental and crushed by happiness I see lacking in others. Reflecting my own emptiness.
I am toy stigmata in a way. Always Carrying the cross of my gender. Of My character. All molded and burnt by irresponsible parenting and aeons of dilligent loneliness. What I am is a little more than a barrel of gasoline. An ancient little soul contained in hard metallic bounds.
I just want to see the light one more time before I disappear as suddenly as I came around. I want to dwell in still waters. Away from nonsensical danger and hunger. I want to wake up in the morning one day, numb in my joy, without ever thinking of nights spent on dawn's highways. I want solace. I'm trying to gravitate towards it. Away from cold and meaningless drives towards nowhere. Always the same god damned destination. And I'm aware that it's my fault. That everything; my misery, my despair, my selfishness, my blindness, my inability to love a girl in the manner she wants me to. Everything is carved on me like countless tattoos that keep people away from me. From all the things I ever wanted to offer and never had chance to. THat or were just plainly taken without a word.

I am shy and my life is my greatest art. It's a sad painting from which colour drips each day. Sometimes slower, sometimes faster. This is another battle lost. Another butterfly released. But I remain here. Silent and subdued. A god on paper. Creating beautiful memories that will die out in the mist of somebody's unmet expectations. And yet I go on like that through life. Void of hope, smiling, like a child that still loves the father that abandoned him.