... mai tii minte cand mi-ai zis ca lumea a uitat sa taca? Mai tii.
De-ar fi unicul lucru despre care ai avut dreptate...

Nu se poate ca in suflet de om sa domneasca atata tacere si atata strigat in acelasi timp. Nu tine.
Nu in suflet de om.

Odata cu trecerea timpului petrecut pe meleagurile nisipoase am observat ca mi-e din ce in ce mai greu sa-mi stapanesc obsesiile, gandurile, parerile. Asta n-ar fi chiar atat de rau daca ar fi cineva acolo sa ti le asculte.

Numai ca, in partea asta de lume, e o chestie de "It's not my business". Orice petec de conversatie se limiteaza la "How was your weekend?" si dupa aia - "I understand".

Nu mai avem placere in a ne asculta unul pe celalalt. Singuri in suflet si indiferenti pe dinafara, ne petrecem zilele trebaluind la calculatoare, cu sprincenele carlig, savurandu-ne cafelele una dupa alta... si tot asa.

Se duce dracului specia omeneasca.

Ceea ce trebuia sa se intample, s-a intamplat. Dar cum era eu sa-i explic ce-i ala "teasc"?.. Si cum ii justific ca daca nu-mi simte resortul launtric, la ce bun sa-i mai zic "hello"?

El nu ma mai desfata demult, dar parca tot m-ai ravneam la acel vant sec de ianuarie ce ne lovea peste crestete in timp ce osteneam pe faleza Manamei...

In that after-storm commemoration of silence… the things that ever really mattered will be rising still… among all the ruins, the flesh and blood.

Shall I tell that you were right about my egomaniac way of being and my many to come spasmodic nights?

“What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay.

That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.”

Sandra Cisneros, Eleven

Note to Self: Since When 15 is Wrong?

Мне не спится, нет огня;

Всюду мрак и сон докучный.

Ход часов лишь однозвучный

Раздается близ меня,

Парки бабье лепетанье,

Спящей ночи трепетанье,

Жизни мышья беготня...

Что тревожишь ты меня?

Что ты значишь, скучный шепот?

Укоризна, или ропот

Мной утраченного дня?

От меня чего ты хочешь?

Ты зовешь или пророчишь?

Я понять тебя хочу,

Смысла я в тебе ищу.

Алекса́ндр Серге́евич Пу́шкин

Dar Unde Dragoste Nu E, Nimic Nu E

gheorghe gheorghiu - dar unde dragoste nu e nimic nu e
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After 1 Week Spent at Home

“There was a time when the world was enormous, spanning the vast, almost infinite boundaries of your neighborhood – the place where you grew up, where you didn’t think twice about playing on someone else’s lawn … and the street was your territory that occasionally got invaded by a passing car. It was where you didn’t get called home until after it was dark. And all the people, and all the houses that surrounded you were as familiar as the things in your own room. And you knew they would never change.”

Daniel Stern, The Wonder Years

you can't do much...

.... you can’t control when you lose your mind.... the only thing you can do is to trust me.... that in those moments... I will be able to hold your heart... till the storm will pass away...