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.

Micul Istanbul

I love this small and naive city. With its humble buildings lulled to sleep each night by the constant whisper of the sea.
Its boats rock back and forth, all trapped in a nostalgic memory of summer. The mosques point spears against the stomach of the sky. The churches winking their metal roofs to the sun. Even in winter.
I love its streets and the way they wash themselves of people during rainy days. The coffee shops that smell of affection to the wandering soul. The music stumbling drunk from bars to be carried home by passing thoughts.
I love the way it crushes the egos of those that ask too much from it and the way it smiles to those few that offer it their enthusiasm.

It has a romantic flair to it. It smells of defeated idealism because you see, This place is built on the uncountable dreams and fantasies of strangers, that time patiently withers into oblivion.
Here, I have split my heart open with the blunt edge of a thousand heartaches and I will rather see it ripped to shreds before I have it completely sealed. Despite the way my affection always heads for closed doors.
In this small village of souls, mine bumps into casual lies that make all truths questionable. The confusion we create for one another has left a curved line on my mouth. A smile to remind me in the mirror of how strangely we decorate pain.
Perhaps the saddest aspect is the way women peer within them sometimes, with coroner eyes, looking for a reason to their lack of affection. Not all the time, just when all the eyes of the world seem to be averted. I read the worry. I felt the discouragement. I felt guilty.
I wanted to hold them. I wanted them to follow me in savage journeys around the continent. To show them that there are roses and wine out there, not just pizza and beer. I supposed I wanted them to look at me, carefully. To understand this uncontrollable chaos I free in the evening when I take off my tie and put on my leather jacket. In the long run, I never dreamed of fixing women, I just hoped that they might fix me.
These women are no doubt the expression of our city. The broken beauty of something mistreated by experience and harassed by its memory. And yet, it endures. Because the city turns into a whole world when you're in love with one of its inhabitants.

Obsequey

Stapanit de o colosala furie, respir greoi. E suflul unui om care incet-incet inceteaza sa mai fie contemporan cu el insusi.
Prin refuzuri sistematice de a fi pierdut in cabluri si ecrane,in cauciuc si plastic; in mod absurd, ma trezesc tot mai mult instrainat de ai mei.
E o epoca teribila in care sa fii in viata. Treptat, idolii falsi, chipurile cioplite in postere de pe peretii copilariei s-au scorojit si mor mancati de trecerea timpului. Ii vad din cand in cand batjocoriti de sinceritatea camerei ce mi-i serveste batrani si irelevanti, gata sa fie digerati complet si eliminati din constiinta colectiva a umanitatii.
Si imi infig mainile in tample privind de la balcon cum soarele ne abandoneaza in fiecare seara; privind ca un legist Cultura noastra in plin proces de putrefactie si e aproape imposibil de speculat in care anume punct s-a produs decesul.
Corpul ala e pierdut, dar al meu imi e o cazan sub al carui capac clocotesc rezultatele unui sfert de secol de neglijente.
neglijente care mi-au plantat dinamita in cap si mi-au sabotat potentialul in folosul unei semi-integrari sociale. Bravo mie, calator neajuns la destinatie! bravo mie ca am parcurs jumatate din drum si am adormit iremediabil in santurile mediocritatii.
Mediocritate!
Infernul generatiei asteia infometate dupa extraordinar. E atat de straniu totusi, sa ai capacitatea de a fi orice si a spinteca stomacul cerului prin infinitatea de posibilitati si totusi, sa te vezi smuls de tine; sa te privesti intr-o oglinda si sa nu vezi decat o suma de asteptari straine, inghesuite impreuna pe nesimtite de-a lungul anilor.
Barba, constitutia, cuvintele. Toate lucrurile astea pe care le port, nu sunt in nici un fel ale mele si nimic nu e mai greu decat sa conturezi un caracter din lucruri imprumutate. Imi e rusine sa-mi plimb acest golem de carne pe strazi. Refuz salbatic sa accept orice compliment in numele lui. L-as inchide in bratele pamantului dar sunt atatea maini ce nu sunt gata sa-i dea drumul.
Intr-un final, adorm mancat de indoiala ca voi gasi vreodata o solutie. Ne nastem si traim in oceane de incertitudine, cu naufragii aleatorii pe insule de siguranta iar asta mereu cu putin timp inainte de a fi mancate si ele de experienta.

un gand in trecere

Totul se va sparge
precum suprafata sticloasa a unui vis
si va fura picaturi de sange,
fara indoiala,
din mainile noastr,
in timp ce asteptam un cer nou.