(Steel) Trap Memory

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We are the sum of our past. Actions, decisions, success and failure.Carry it around like snails carry their houses.And some days the house is lighter, on others it’s heavy.On special days it’s immobilizing…

Wordless pain.Soundless one.Compensated by the thousand voices inside.Some whispering, some screaming.Others doubtful.Others convincing.The orchestra we house within makes beautiful music or a deafening noise, playing on the keyboard of events in our lives.

How can you get over an anniversary? Make a new one.Just like you replace flowers in a vase.

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Fluturi pe bec

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La fiecare cateva zile, imi reamintesti cat de separate sunt lumile astea.Cat de putin se ating si cat de fugar.Cureti sticla sa luceasca.(Luna sau bec?)Sticla asta cu transparenta ei inselatoare….vezi totul dincolo, totu-i clar si pare palpabil.Urasc pe cel care a inventat sticla! Era mai bine sa fie tabla sau lemn.Nu treci si nu vezi nici dincolo.Ca si gardul vecinilor.Treaba lor e treaba lor.Prin sticla se vede totul la o intindere de brat.La o intindere de muschi…Din oricare parte a corpului.Toti muschii se avanta, ca o aruncare de pisica  sau un fluturat de aripi (de inger?) intr-un borcan ucigas….Ce faceti cu fluturii dupa ce v-ati saturat de ei si i-ati omorat?

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Sunsets as gifts

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“One day,” you said to me, “I saw the sunset forty-three times!”
And a little later you added:
“You know–one loves the sunset, when one is so sad . . .”
“Were you so sad, then?” I asked, “on the day of the forty-three sunsets?”
But the little prince made no reply.

(Antoine de Saint Exupery, The Little Prince)

 

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Esti mese

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Tücskök százai a szürkületben…Minden irányból.Füllbemászó zene,bolonditóan hangos az esti csendben.Illatok százai hallgassák.Leírhatatlan az estike és a vörös rózsa bóditó tánca…érzékbolonditó.Színek százai az égen,szivárvány foszlányokban távozik a nap. A földön árnyékok folynak, mind szétomlott  tinta a lábaim allatt,körülveszik és kúsznak, bokákat kötnek gúzsba…összeszorít az est közeledő sötétje éátöleli vállaim.Az élet csepeg az erekben mind a nyári eső az ereszekben…melegen és nyugtatón.Szentjánosbogár fények a távolságban, ahogy a város tompa zajban ünnepel.Még egy este nélküled…

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And Happy Birthday to me!

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One year today.One year of roller-coasting.”Bleeding over a piece of paper”and “write hard and clear about what hurts”, as Hemingway said.One year of pondering wise words of people past and present.Finding that one’s happiness and sorrow finds reflection in the lives of others, equally heavy people.Same music on different instruments…Meeting people virtually and imagining their flesh and blood beyond the keyboard.What makes them write so beautifully…New people.Or old people rediscovered as new.Continents apart or blocks apart.Apart.Yet closer through a click, or a like.Growing addiction to reading.Choosing a language to write in.Not writing for others, yet loving being read.Reading other blogs almost as if going through someone’s things or looking at their exposed chest:”This is who I am.See me.Listen to my voice.Understand me.Hold me. Make me feel less alone and more alive.”

The first year is the toughest.So they say.Or is it only about marriages?Or is it the first 2 years? Or 3, as Beigbeder says?or 8?15? Nevermind….Some loves do resist…So I’ve heard..

I am one year old today.One year of feeling immensely, dramatically.The only way I can….The only way I do…Leaking sometimes, glowing at others.If even one line I wrote made a difference, to anybody,it was worth it.It made the world to me.One year of radiance, of heaven and hell, sometimes in the same place….Life unfolding….with every heartbeat, with every sunrise and every sunset.Thank you for being part of my life, by reading my blog.

p.s.Cheers.Happy birthday. To me.

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Panic attack…

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Missing came in waves. Big tidal waves. Hitting and knocking him down.Trying to breathe.Mouth filled with solid nothingness.Her absence.Trying to stand tall, while the head is pushed further down, lower and lower, to a sinking point.Gasping for air.Once, twice…Desperate third time…Heart pumping loud in the ears…Eyelids beating frantically as eyes capture sequence of images with her.Eyes overflowing with salt water in vertical springs…Pillows are lifejackets.Smaller and smaller heartbeats  the only sounds.He wouldn’t even mind dying tonight…