PseudoNeoPostModernism

Because I hate winter when it isn’t snowing.

In nesaratul stil clasic, voi scrie pe data de 4 august despre nimicurile ce mi-au insumat ultimul an de viata. Despre ce inseamna pentru mine sa fac 20 de ani. Si desi in anii trecuti imi gaseam cu lejeritate si gratie cuvintele acum ma regasesc in situatia cel putin stranie de a nu avea ce mari impresii sau experiente de impartit. Ultimul an m-a golit de energie, de entuziasm, de principii si in schimb nu mi-a dat foarte multe. Am asteptat 19 ani ca viata mea sa inceapa cu adevarat, la fel cum am mai asteptat si 16, si 17 si mai ales 18. Am asteptat sa explodez intr-o existenta veridica, sa pot sa ma bat cu pumnii in piept in fata tuturor ca sunt aici, ca sunt palpabila, sunt o fiinta reala, cu tot felul de lucruri de spus, de povestit, de invatat, de dat si de primit. Inca astept.

Am trait tot felul de lucruri in ultimul an, dar niciunul nu m-a imbogatit. M-au dezamagit, m-au bucurat, m-au facut sa ma indoiesc, sa cred, sa disper, sa am cosmaruri si sa astept cu nerabdare ziua de maine. Dar nicio zi de pana acum n-a fost cum ma asteptam. Am pierdut multe, am pierdut oameni mai ales, cativa subit iar pe restul pe drum, mi-am pierdut pisica, mi-am pierdut increderea in omenire iar in schimb am primit doar blazare, rutina, si sentimetul pregnant ca nimic nu va mai fi la fel. Am primit puterea de a ma zbate pentru a obtine ceea ce mi se cuvine, insa nu mai stiu exact ce merit. Am vazut piese de teatru, concerte si multe baruri, dar am vazut si mizeria, incrancenarea si uratenia capitalei. As vrea sa pot scrie despre ce experiente profund spirituale am avut, despre cum am crescut, m-am maturizat, am acumulat cunostinte si toate cele, dar nu pot. Am invatat doar sa latru si sa musc, pe doua labe in loc de patru. Am ajuns scarbita de lumea in care traiesc, de as intra in pamant numai sa scap de ea, de prost-gust, de prostie si incultura. Nu sunt trista, sunt in mare parte chiar fericita, dar am obosit asteptand. Am obosit facandu-mi iluzii ca la x ani, viata se va transforma subit in viata pe care o vrei si pe care o astepti. In raspunsul la intrebarea “ce vrei sa te faci cand vei fi mare”.

In fiecare an primesc din ce in ce mai putine telefoane, mesaje si urari. Nu stiu cat conteaza asta. probabil ca daca ati uitat anul asta, de fapt sunt un gradinar care a uitat sa-si ude floarea sau sa-si intretina amicitiile, iar daca ati uitat si anul trecut, probabil eram doar un reminder pe net sau pe telefon care a disparut cand v-ati sters contul de hi5 sau v-ati schimbat telefonul. Indiferent, poate ca anul trecut m-ar fi deranjat mai mult, dar anul asta nu simt nimic la gandul ca doar o mana de oameni, pe care ii iubesc, stiu ce e 4 August. Mi-a luat mult sa realizez cine e cu adevarat important pentru mine, iar asta ma face o fraiera.

Imi pare rau ca in fiecare an imi pierd din ce in ce mai multe amintiri. Uit fete, intamplari, locuri. Uneori prezentul ma macina atat de tare - desi nu atat de tare precum viitorul - incat trecutul se sterge incet, incet cu fiecare clipa. Si nu pot tine pasul cu prezentul daca ma ancorez in trecut, dar totusi fac compromisul pe care il regret de fiecare data cand realizez ca mi-a fugit inca o amintire placuta pentru totdeauna. Si poate ca si eu la randul meu dispar incet-incet din amintirile celorlalti. Ca o figura ce se sterge treptat dintr-o poza, lasand un gol, sau un lapsus… Cum o chema pe fata aia din Tulcea?

Aici am ajuns la capatul lungului sir de nimicuri. Brusc si inestetic. Asteptand in continuare.

Cand iti incepe viata defapt?

You wake up and go to the subway. How many people do you pass by every time? How much time passes by you during your five minute journey downtown? How many of those people are like you, worried that the world is going to hell and sick of their unfulfilled lives? How much will you miss those five minutes a year or maybe ten years later? How many more mornings of walking alone in a sea of people await you?

The escalator moves slowly upwards, carrying a large crowd towards the start of their new day. When at the top they start running towards the exits. Where are we running to? What are we hurrying for? Why so much bustle for things that give us no true satisfaction? Why do we push and shove the ones around us in the race towards nothing spectacular? What do we really care about?

You float around, alone and silent, and you watch the world turn and churn, and in the clarity supplied by the feeling of not belonging you see what the world truly means. How every person walking by you has a face, a glimmer in their eye, a trace of empathy, overshadowed by this race that we are taught to run no matter what.

A dead pigeon lies stiff on a marble bench. People walk by it without noticing. Even the street sweeper picks up the garbage yet leaves it behind. No one sits on that bench despite the lack of seating space. An elderly woman holds a box of baby rabbits at her feet, selling them as cheap as possible. They dig into one and other for warmth. A sick dog begs for food near a group of old men reading newspapers. It is invisible and you feel privileged to be the only one to see it. A lone woman with dead eyes stands next to the fountain, half of her face bruised and her cheeks flushed. No one dares to look at her as if they are ashamed of her misery.

Across the fountain you see me. I am the dead pigeon. The rabbits. The dog. The bruised woman. I am everyone you see on your way to the subway. The gypsy selling flowers at the corner. The old man asking for change. The three-legged cat sleeping near a sewer. The divorced mother of three that sits next to you in the train. The kid without an eye that cheers himself up with thinking he’s like a pirate. I am all the stories that people do not want to know about. All those five minutes that you will miss dearly in the future. All those worried, hopeless people. All those cold mornings.

I’m not part of the race. You come sit besides me on the marble edge. You look into me and we both become invisible. For you the race is over. You grab my hand and we fall into it, like a fever.

All this shit is making me feel woozy. I need a break. An away time. Six hours that will play their part in my unfolding life. Six hours that will torment me every night while trying to sleep. Six hours that I have to face on Friday the 31st of August, 2007 A.D. The thing is, I just don’t want to fail. Not now. I can’t handle failure this time.

I’m old. I feel old, and I am older than I look. I’m 19 today, more precisely, I will be 19 at 10:22PM, August 4th 2007. I’ve never had a birthday without the need to talk about the people in my life or my life up to that moment. This one is no exception. I know many people. Friends, acquaintances, people I’ve known for less than a day, an hour, 5 minutes. People I’ve talked to in train stations, subways, airports, cabs, bars, during exams or waiting in line for something. All sorts of people, the ones that drink expensive vodka and the ones who smoke cheap cigarettes, depressed, anxious, happy, inert, all kinds of people. Some of them liked me, some didn’t, a few hated me. I liked most of them, either way. Some I cared for deeply. A few I loved. Some I hurt, some hurt back, some hurt first just for the hell of it, mostly willingly, a few without realizing. To make a more detailed list would be kitsch, unnecessary and completely idiotic. And yet I find thinking about them in retrospective absolutely charming. I like to replay things in my head, hoping that those moments would just barely replay in my heart. And sometimes, it does skip a beat or two. And all these people I’ve known have helped me in some way or another. In an struggle to define myself - a need that has plagued me for too many years to count - I like to think that I am the collective effort of all these persons who have been in my life even for the shortest of moments. The truth is, I can’t define myself. I have no sense of self because I see myself through all these eyes that I’ve mentioned before. I need the people around me to keep me from falling apart, from disintegrating into bits and pieces of a person that I’m not sure exists. I need them to draw my contour, to help me be something. Who am I, if not something for everyone but nothing for myself. But I digress. I don’t regret meeting any of these people. Though I know for sure that some regret meeting me. In 19 years of being, I’ve done many bad things. I will refrain from making a list, yet again. This is not a confession. Nor an apology for that matter. I’m sick of those. What I’ve done these past few years, to me, to my friends and to others around me needs no apology, as I need no apologies from them. We’re all parts of each and everyone else’s evolution, and we shape each other like clockwork. And sometimes all the things that I’ve been through seem overwhelming. And I feel depressed and sad and angry and on the verge of regret. And the more I immerse myself in those feelings the more they accentuate until one day they become unbearable. And then I purge myself by forgetting. It’s a cycle that almost comes natural to me. But each time around, I refuse to regret. I do not regret any of you. And I’ve already said too much. And to tell you the truth, at 19 years of age, “sometimes the past seems too big for the present to hold”.

Pentru ca oamenilor le e frica sa pronunte numele cuiva trecut in nefiinta de curand, pentru ca viata e nedreapta si moartea si mai si, pentru ca e tragic, trist si dezolant, pentru ca ne va fi dor de el, pentru ca ultima data cand l-am vazut mi-a zambit si mi-a spus ca seman cu un ceainic chinezesc, pentru ca nu il voi mai vedea niciodata, pentru ca nu ma pot obisnui cu gandul, pentru toate astea dar mai ales pentru el: Dragos, ne vei lipsi.

“Am cautat mult acel spatiu stramt dintre dumnezeu si drac, acel coltisor crepuscular intre lumina si iad, acea fasie neutra de gandire absoluta, nici extremista nici diplomata, nici subtila nici exagerata, incapabila de a purta atribute adjectivale, incolora, inodora, plina de cuvinte goale, neinventata dar teoretizata, inutila dar cautata, acea firmitura de paine intre atatea fire de nisip, pentru a-mi hrani sufletul infometat.”

E uimitor cate prostii personale gasesti pierdute prin analele hardului tau vechi

An astonishing smudge of grays and blue hues mashed with brown geometrical shapes betraying that which lies beneath: nothing more than useless dust, innapropiately thought to be that of stars, asymmetrical and sensless jabbering of bodies in tight, cramped public means of transportation. Sleepy frozen windshields of abandoned cars rusting away in the cold and bitter urban mornings, decaying under the sharp-toothed afternoon sun of lonely Sundays watching over the theatre. We are nothing more than what we think ourselves to be, pointless in the grande scheme or lack of thereof, slow walking , manufacturing sleepy hollows for every single one of our callous offspring, pulling at their hair in ways unknown to human fingertips until now. Kisses overflowing with subtle lust and masked saliva, lips crushing skin and guitar strings and we have nowhere to turn to for affection now. What is this about? What are we supposed to see in this incoherent poor excuse for an existence lacking everything from base to substance. Ten years pass as quickly as summer break, and we break free from the dirt and spoiled water contrived of flesh and no more anorganic jibberish unrelated to that which is the common origin. Spit is everpresent, flags torn above our heads for they mean nothing. What is this about anyway? Don’t expect too much from people, it will hurt them and wound you like a silver bullet through a chocolate cake and oily tegument, like bronze arrows through nihil and seringe needles through innocent veins. Let the low tide sweep your nosebleeds and gather them inside us like honey from distant flowers. Summing all of this up I find myself not existing, unreal and halucinogenic manifestation of nothingness that shouldn’t even be named for it has none, one thousand hours of staring will do nothing to enlighten my perception of my own persona and no surjectivity exists in my vital functions. What is this about, in the end? What is this about.

Come to me now And lay your hands over me Even if it’s a lie Say it will be alright And I shall believe I’m broken in two And I know you’re on to me That I only come home When I’m so all alone But I do believe That not everything is gonna be the way You think it ought to be It seems like every time I try to make it right It all comes down on me Please say honestly you won’t give up on me And I shall believe And I shall believe Open the door And show me your face tonight I know it’s true No one heals me like you And you hold the key Never again would I turn away from you I’m so heavy tonight But your love is alright And I do believe That not everything is gonna be the way You think it ought to be It seems like every time I try to make it right It all comes down on me Please say honestly You won’t give up on me And I shall believe I shall believe And I shall believe

Nu. Nu sunt intotdeauna vesela, nu sunt intotdeauna fericita, nu sunt intotdeauna entuziasmata, nu am o parere buna despre mine, nu sunt optimista si nu sper la ceva mai mult decat am deja.