Quote of the day – Citatul zilei

“Fericirea este tăcerea nefericirii.”(Frederic Beigbeder)

Quote of the day- Citatul zilei

Nichita Stănescu – Sfârşit De Anotimp

“Eram atât de atent,

încât se stingea-n cupole amiaza,

iar sunetele înghetau în jurul meu,

prefacându-se-n stâlpi rasuciti.

Eram atât de atent,

încât plutirea ondulata-a mirosurilor

se prabusea-n întuneric

si parca niciodata n-as fi-ncercat

frigul.

Deodată

m-am trezit atât de departe

şi de străin

rătăcind înapoia chipului meu,

ca si cum mi-aş fi învelit simţurile

cu relieful fără de noimă al lunii.

Eram atât de atent,

încât

nu te-am recunoscut, şi poate

că vii mereu,

în fiecare oră, în fiece secundă,

şi treci prin aşteptarea mea de-atunci

ca prin fantoma unui arc de triumf.”

FrumuSetea zilei

“Vis

Te-am visat azi-noapte.
Se făcea că erai 
și mai frumoasă. 
Călăreai cel mai alb 
cal din lume,
pe cea mai verde 
și întinsă câmpie…
Învelită în tine,
purtai o podoabă
de cireși înfloriți.
Vântul 
îți vântura părul,
cerul își cernea
îngerii,
ochii-mi lăcrimau
fără de lacrimi,
iar eu,
pur și simplu,
nu existam.”

Nicu Alifantis, februarie 2014

(pic)

Music to fit the mood

(Just ) Don’t cry.

Quote of the day – Citatul zilei

Femeia este iubită aşa cum e iubită muzica, cum e iubit luxul. Este spirituală şi este dorită. Dar ceea ce ea crede, ceea ce simte, ceea ce poartă în gând, nu interesează pe nimeni.

( Antoine de Saint-Exupery)

“It is said that …

“It is said  that time passes. Time never passes. We pass through time. ”
( Garabet Ibrăileanu )

We encounter time since we slide into life. Not when we are born, but  270 days before, when ” we are offered” birth. We take the gift without being asked if we want it, if we choose to come .Or for how long we shall stay… We are born as a new year is born, expected and unknown, inevitable. We fall into the world as snow falls from the sky, pure and godlike. Have you ever looked at the freshly fallen snow? Before stepping on it? Or a perfect snowflake melted in the heat of the hand at the fraction of a second? Time takes us by the hand and we learn to crawl through it, to stand up, to walk, to run. Have you ever thought that  time is differently perceived in a child? The passing months make a difference? That a child says he is 5 years and 2 months old while an adult will never say that he is 58 years and 4 months old? Children feel time and time feels them….. They expect tomorrow as a new day, wake up happily, to see what it brings to them….. They love waiting and time loves to be loved … Waiting, impatiently awaited vacations, birthdays ,adulthood, love …. All meetings are running TOWARDS time – and with open arms … Like a child waiting for a guest with gifts and surprises.

We pass through time when we change the number prefixes of our years … decades, not days or minutes or seconds…. When time feels unappreciated and unloved….. When tomorrow eats up today….. When you live for plans with all the verbs in the future tense, all the time….. When what you need to happen is more important than what is happening now. When we hurry and thoughtfully pass beside blooming trees in spring, pigeons in parks, or do not sit in the sun for the sake of staying with the face in the sun. When you constantly check the ticking of the clock and not the ticking hearts of others.

We pass through time when we fear that we took our timeshares … When our flesh is cut by artificial patterns and society’s mores…. When we do not run TOWARDS time, but we race with it. A crazy race to do what is expected of our timed race …And who holds the timer? They do not understand that people breathe in and out rhythmically, but we do not carry “an expiration date” …. Hiding years out of vanity, like hiding money in safes for fear of thieves …… Denying time we were given as a gift , years hidden in shame , looking for lost youth and expecting deathless lives… Youth is not lost, as long as there is the child within us, full of pranks and full of sparkle. So time feels less loved…

Moving through time as we go through stations. Stations of seasons, days, years. We stop to celebrate anniversaries. But every day is a celebration. A celebration that we are alive. That we woke up next to our loved ones. We have them, for a while …It’s a celebration: every breath we take, every heartbeat, every watering of the eyelid. Every flourishing smile. Time likes smiles. It feels loved and loves back with gifts “at the right time … because: “All they have their time and every thing under heaven has its time.” (Eccl.3 1)

They say that time passes. Time never passes. We pass through time… Crying at birth , crawling on our belly, by playing , dreaming and loving , investing and harvesting , learning until the last moment , when we slide as we came , again without being asked if we want it , if that’s our choice … Passing through time. ..And time passes through us…

“If time” (or us) ” had leaves , what a fall that would be “ ………..( Nichita  Stănescu )

Just a quote from Tyler Knott Gregson

“I want to be the sound, that sound I am sure every person on every planet makes but no one will ever make quite like you, when you stretch your body as far as it will stretch in the morning. That soft mix of moan and squeal as you bend the sleep from your weary bones and remind them that they were built for being vertical no matter how much they love the feeling of lying down.I want to be the sound, that sound I am sure every person on every planet makes but no one will ever make quite like you, when you stretch your body as far as it will stretch in the morning. That soft mix of moan and squeal as you bend the sleep from your weary bones and remind them that they were built for being vertical no matter how much they love the feeling of lying down.

I want to be the steam that rises from two cups of tea while we sit at that table and the way the light seems to play in it when it’s filtered through the dirty windows still moist with the morning. Or your day dreams, for they are dreams too even though they always get passed over for the silly fact that they lack the qualifier of sleep to fuel them.

I want to be a handwritten letter that you wrote to me, and I want to be the letters that you carefully chose to put next to the other letters and the way you worked hard to make the sentences dance together.

I want to be that flourish of that pen and the way it connected to your skin and that skin covered your blood that carried all the words from your heart to your finger tips through that pen that your fingers held too tightly and pressed too firmly into the paper it wrote upon. I want to be the pages under those pages that still carry the indention of your thought process and I want to be the part of the envelope you lick to seal up tight all the things you could never say to me.”

(Tyler Knott Gregson)

Have we met before…

Both are convinced

that a sudden surge of emotion bound them together.
Beautiful is such a certainty,
but uncertainty is more beautiful still.

Since they’d never met before, they’re sure
that nothing was happening between them.
What of streets, stairways and corridors
where they could have passed each other long ago?

I’d like to ask them
whether they remember–
Perhaps in a revolving door
ever being face to face?
An “excuse me” in a crowd?
A curt “wrong number” in the receiver?
But I know the answer:
No, they don’t remember.

They’d be greatly astonished to learn
that for a long time
Chance had been playing with them.

Not yet wholly ready
to transform into fate for them
it approached them, then backed off,
stood in their way,
and, suppressing a giggle,
jumped to the side.

There were signs and signals,
even if they couldn’t read them yet.
Perhaps three years ago
or just last Tuesday
a certain leaf fluttered
from one shoulder to another?
Something was dropped and then picked up.
Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished
into childhood’s thicket?

There were doorknobs and doorbells
where one touch had covered another
beforehand.
Suitcases checked and standing side by side.
One night, perhaps, the same dream,
forgotten in waking.

Every beginning
is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.

(Wislawa Szymborska)

(source)

(Pink) Music

On letters