Lonely sort of creature
I’ve never quite gotten used to the foreign feeling of not being alone. I may move slow, but it doesn’t mean i’m going away. It just might take a while for me to reach that level where I can stand at ease, surrounded by social conveniences and emotional expectations I could never quite fulfill. But I’ll never walk past you. The very thought seems ludicrous. And yet, with all my words (that don’t seem to convey this painful emotion, but still…), i can’t find a way to let you know. That kind of hurts, it kind of burns and cuts and wears away at things that are too worn down as it is. And I resort to foreign languages with simpler words, cleaner meanings, without the endless emotional and cultural baggage memory has loaded upon our mother tongue. And so I sully my ideals, but I refuse to admit to defeat. I’ll just rethink this war strategy of mine and devise some way to make-believe I meant for this to happen all along. In the end, what’s the point of keeping this loser’s badge in self-expression? It’s way too easy to pretend, to play along with faith and hazard and your every hard-strained whim.
You know, I even get attached to my cellphones. My cat is the (often impatient) recipient of many a bout of maternal instincts. I keep dresses for years, out-of-fashion or too small, because I used to wear them and they’re drenched with parts of myself, bits of existence that define who i was, which leads directly to who I am now. Same goes for you: there’s bit of me inside yourself. I doubt that you could sort them out, they’re not quite obvious, but more like a part of your person, that exists in its current state partly due to my presence in your life. That would make this true both ways, then: there’s pieces of you in me. But maybe you don’t know, since my pieces filled all the empty spots yours left behind. But, well, for me it’s quite obvious that you have come into possession of bits of myself, and that, without you, I’d never be quite whole. And that, in my own twisted world, (and even there, it’s a selfish thing to say), makes you mine. My very own lover.
incoerent, identitate
Mi-am vopsit ghiare sângerii, ca o imitaţie de pastic a vreunui fel alternativ de a-mi duce zilele. Îmi imaginez că mă zgâriu pe faţă până-mi dau jos toată tencuiala, toate scuturile, bătăturile formate de la supraexpunere la existenţă. Vreau oglinzi, multe-multe, ca într-o sală de balet, pe toţi pereţii. vreau, În mod pervers, sî-mi urmăresc imperfecţiunile şi să nu-mi fie permis să mă machiez pe ascuns. Cel puţin, nu ascunzându-mă de mine.
Nu am crezut că sunt genul acela de femeie, din romanţe de început de secol XX, care de suferinţă îşi pierd somnul şi pofta de mâncare. Uite, totuşi, că nu mai pot simţi mirosuri alimentare fără să mi se facă rău, şi nu-mi mai pot organiza timpul (creatură perversă care îmi refuză dreptul de a o înţelege) decât în jurul balonaşelor de posibile regrete şi înecat cu lucruri negândite, la care îmi refuz să mă gândesc. Autoanaliză până la negarea eului. Nu exist, e doar un corp care apasă taste, cu unghii roşii şi substanţe chimice cauzatoare de reacţii emoţionale în creier.
“Eu” este o minciună. Dar una plăcută şi utilă. Îmi place să vorbesc despre eu, să mă găndesc la el şi să privesc lumea din jur, prin raport la el. îmi împodobesc pielea cu desene din interiorul imposibil. Sunt doar carne şi îndoieli.
selfish
Every word I ever write down is about me. Never mind what it’s about, never mind if I claim it’s fiction, in the end it’s just insight into this freak that I am. Even when I talk about other people, it’s ultimatively just my take on them, my view on the world and its inhabitants and, within these views, there’s me. This woman of 20, sitting at her desk in front of her keyboard with, alternatively, her mind or her fingertips overflowing with thought words. Worded ideas. My every understanding of life is construed to be articulated, even if it mostly ends up being spoken solely in my head. i talk to myself all the time, just not outloud.
It’s not midnight, but today’s dreary. And i’m quite weary, i must add, of natural things such as illness and unhappiness. I’m weary of my own failure to act, and of my grand ability to make up excuses which spare me from acting. I’m scared, today, in remembrance of a dream I had a couple of months ago that now seems to come true, come back to life as a gruesome zombie, its rotten flesh hardly bearing resemblance to that vision i had in my sleep, and it horrifies me with the perspective of a thoroughly unhappy ending to this tale.
În stare de asediu
Afară e ploaie de toamnă şi criză economică. Pe lângă biroul meu plutesc ziare cu literatură şi criză economică. Sunt în stare de asediu şi criza din mine surclasează foametea mondială. Nici nu mai are rost să donez mese pe freerice.com. Nici nu mai există motive să găsim surse de energie alternative, să nu mai poluăm planeta, să ne transformăm în iepuri mâncători de morcovi şi varză.
Nici nu mai are sens să mă duc la cursul ăsta enervant de vineri, să-mi iau examenele de gramatică, să gândesc optimist sau să încerc să dorm la noapte. Cui îi trebuie somn, oricum, poţi dormi în mormânt, sunt un zombie cu ochi încercănaţi înlăcrimaţi încărcaţi cu negarea lumii pe care mi-am construit-o. Singurul petec de pământ pe care l-am ales intenţionat, ca să am pe ce-mi odihni genunchii uzaţi de atâta stat pe scaun, e inundat de ploaie, şi nu poţi lua în poală pământul, dar îl poţi săruta şi strânge în pumni. Dacă nu te despart de el străzi ude, maşini şi ziduri de beton.
Spre norii de ploaie, coloraţi azi în nuanţa mea preferată de gri, aş vrea să urlu şi să trag săgeţi: apără-mă de lume, furtună minoră, sau abandonează-mă pe marginea unui şanţ, să miaun patetic la maşinile din parcare, numai nu mă lăsa singură în cavoul craniului ăstuia plin de ecouri şi de fisuri prin care intră vânt, dar nu şi lumină. Vântul, înţelegi, dar nu şi lumina.
On war
De pe blogul lui Latuff, unde comics-urile au copyleft, dovada a obsesivitatii cu care urmaresc politica mondiala. Lelea din mine tremura in opinci la gandul crizei economice.
site-ul de origine: http://tales-of-iraq-war.blogspot.com/
Common sense – luat anonim de pe net.. mai fac si de astea :)
Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years.
No one knows for sure how old he was, as his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape.
He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as knowing when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm, life isn’t always fair, and maybe it was my fault.
Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don’t spend more than you earn) and reliable parenting strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).
His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place.
Reports of a six-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.
Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job they failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.
He declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer Paracetamol, sun lotion or a sticky plaster to a student but could not inform the parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.
He began to lose the will to live as churches became businesses; creationism vied for equal footing with proper science, alternative treatments became available on the NHS (while cancer drugs were banned) and criminals received better treatment than their victims.
The poor bloke took a beating when you couldn’t defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar can sue you for assault.
He finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realise that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.
Barely recovering from that he was bludgeoned to death by the news that the world’s financial markets had been demolished by irresponsible bankers who made a fortune doing so and who the governments bailed out by demanding money from those wise enough to have adopted sensible fiscal policies.
This grand old man was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust, his wife, Discretion, his daughter, Responsibility; and his son, Reason.
He is survived by four stepbrothers; “I Know My Rights,” “Someone Else’s Problem,” “I’m A Victim” and “Work? I’m better off on the Dole,” and his stepsisters; “Gymslip Mother” and “I’ll have a baby and they’ll give me a house.”
Not many attended his funeral because so few realised he was gone. If you still remember him, pass this on. If not join the majority and do nothing.
