Antiexemplu.

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Nu-i cunosc povestea soro dar îți voi lămuri incertitudinile prin a-ți prezenta varianta mea, cea imaginară, cea pe care văd prin ochii tăi. Îmi cer iertare anticipat că-mi permit această perversitate. 

Îmi sare in peisaj, imaginea unui Bukowski. Așa îl percep eu. Domnilor, pauză; nu mă întrebați de ce îmi bat capul sa vă povestesc despre el. Ați implorat să o cunoașteți; v-o prezint pe Ea.

Nu fiți atât de ipocriți încât să-mi cereți un nume. Nu vi-l dau. Nu îl meritați. Ea, “Ea” este mai mult decât vă imaginați.

Revenind la el. Sau la “El”.

El părea în ochii mei un paradoxal, un om sărit de pe fix, un bărbat antiexemplu.

În imaginația mea chinuită de gânduri, El este înalt, bine modelat, fața acoperită de un așternut subtil de păr; mi-o imaginez des frecând obrazul ei fin de acea barbă, copil fiind, rareori cât să păstreze stratul subțire de gheață intact. Mi-o mai imaginez fredonând melodii pe ritmul buzelor lui, privindu-l când el se uită înapoi.

Țineți seama cuvintelor mele domnilor. Sunt alese cu atenție și apăsare pe suflet.

Mă întreb dacă și el, ca și Ea, are vreun tic ce-i trădează cursul sângelui. Oare și al lui curge pe verticală?

Își înghițea mâhnirea plutind dar sarea transpirației îi permitea să plutească. Oare ce metaforă o fi aceasta?

Își inhala fericirea precum fumul unei țigări jumătate stinse. O aprofunda. Si Ea, de altfel, o aprofundează. În cazul ei, fericirea era o căzătură a sufletului, o mărginire a iubirii, un instinct ce nu trăda. N-am de unde să știu ce înseamnă pentru El fericirea dar știu că fericirea lui este orice amintire o cuprinde.

Vocile lor se aseamănă; la fel de degajate, extremiste, pline de trăiri. “Iartă-mi expresia”, zise ea.

Mi-am imaginat peisajul dulce și în același timp, amar, al adevărului, al jurămintelor, al iertării, al unui lac calm, al tăcerii.

Se auzea liniștea copleșitoare. Ea surâde cu mândrie la prima mișcare a firului. El o privește uitându-se înainte, spre lac.

Domnilor, nu mai așteptați explicații. O privește ca pe o umbră a sa. Îi cunoaște trăsăturile precum și le cunoaște pe ale lui.

Nu sare în sus de fericire nici la a doua întindere a firului. Își așteaptă momentul. Răbdarea este un dar chinuitor. Firul se strânge și o trage în jos. Este o întreagă artă în a prinde prada perfectă.

Iarăși îi copleșește liniștea amortitoare. Îl vad cum își destinde chipul și îi bate un apropo. Peștele se sperie de râsul ei colorat dar neputincios și perturbat, mușcă.

El comentează ceva cu haz și mândrie. O glumă auzită prin colivii de vrăbii.

“Tată, aruncă-mi momeala aia”, zise Ea.

Cine este Ea?

Tu o cunoști.

Cine este El?

Un alt soi de Bukowski.

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November.

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I don’t have the permission to brag or make you pity me. Today is the first day of November, another first, another November, one more year. It saddens me. The cold weather, the wounded souls, desperate and yet, peaceful. It hasn’t even began yet (winter) but it seems a lot like it. The nights are noisier, the flashing of the soaked leaves is harshening and people tend to prepare themselves for the season. Some of them are sticking to their old habits while others keep on looking for their next year’s victim.
I fear these firsts; first infatuation, first catch of the eye, first kisses and first of November. All of the above have the tendecy to begin something. I even fear to admit what that something may be.
Last night I discovered how careless a soul can be. Even if the blurred mind can think clearly, the soul, no matter what, makes it its’ way. A man flushed me with his philosophies. I would only sip and listen. He wouldn’t keep his mouth nor his mind. He judged every movement of my face and body. I didn’t’t want to admit his rightfulness. I preferred trying to change his words with sporadic NO’s. He wouldn’t take it as an answer. He insisted with his meaningful words. He even dared to say that he could easily make me cry. That’s where my mind stopped; to that sentence. How can a stranger tell you that and be right about it? It was admirable.
Anyways. I will not write how it continued. It has no importance. Last night was the end of an era. Tonight is the beginning of another.
My eyelids are getting heavier and my skin is feeling the coldness. The foggy air is making it hard to breath and the darkness has fallen completely on my street. No soul, no light, just the noisy November.

Once Upon a Time…

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  In fairy tales there’s is a saying that heroes always win and villains don’t get a happy ending. In the real world, there isn’t a Savior, nor a Wicked Witch. In the real world, there exist only humans.
     As Prince Charming fell in love with Snow White, men fall in love with women and the other way around. But as you know, our world is more black-hearted than any villain. If love happens, it could be easily characterized, as Bukowski said, a dog from hell. As if an evil curse had fallen upon my thoughts tonight, I am blinded by a certain pessimism. I have no intention of withering your feelings so I shall call my fairy and have her make me a dreaming potion.
     I am looking at myself in a mirror and my eyes are tearful.
I feel my heart pumping worriedly. The cold night filled me with pain for the dear person that my soul’s seeking. The fact that he’s missing from me increases my blood pressure, feeding my brain with brooding thoughts and my heart with a sadness that comes from this nostalgic emotion. I’m wishing for his arms around me to warm me. I remember the nights when I was falling asleep on his shoulder. The thought of it only, that he was by my side, relaxed me and made me feel safe. I remember the color of his eyes when the tiredness was conquering him. They used to darken in an unique way that his sweet melancholy swam even more freely into his unshed tears. Even more impressive it was the way he blinked, patiently and wanting, like the world owed him and he would be prepared to wait as long as it took to be given his merits. I always wanted to believe that. Sometimes, I thought of another theory but the pain that it brought me, erased it quickly. I imagined; perhaps he is that way because he thinks he deserves it. I thought of that melancholy as his own self-punishment and I had no motive of such a cruel thought.
     Before waking up, I saw him again, laughing happily. I haven’t seen him many times in our real life laughing from his heart and every time I did, I fell in love with him even more deeply.

Memories tied with ribbon.

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    I plucked my index finger and I felt nothing. I had a feeling of numbness, as if someone injected me with morphine. My mind though was flicking ashes of some old memories, unwrapping them like they were tied with ribbon, then taking one by one out of their boxes and putting them side by side. After a couple of minutes, they were all put in pain sequence, firstly the ones that hurt most and then the less worrisome. Apparently, the alcohol was doing its’ job so I had to hurry before its’ effect will be gone. My memories sat on a continuous strip and my mind, as a machine, did the processing. Suddenly, it stopped. I heard a loud command coming from underneath, somewhere on the left part of my chest. My heart screamed.

     She wasn’t prepared for such a savage experimentation on her needs. I plucked my little finger this time and it felt as if plucking my soul. Then I remembered the words. ”You don’t know what you want.” For a second or maybe more, I wondered if that predication was true. Obviously it wasn’t. I laugh at myself when saying this but maybe you will understand. How can I pronounce myself to a person that wishes to become part of my life and tell him that what I truly want is completely different? Others will judge me for not telling him the truth. Can I be excused for not choosing to be cruel with another human soul?
     The ribbon was still untied, the boxes empty and my memories aligned like soldiers prepared for inspection. My heart was still quarreling with my mind, both having my soul sitting on a bench, staring at them desperately and deeply hoping that my heart will win. So she did. The alcohol tormented no more my veins and I was back to my senses. How was that really? Don’t ask me. I just chose to let my heart continue what she was already doing. Loving. She never stopped. Why would I make her stop now?

Revenge upon ourselves, not a solution.

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     There was no warmth anymore. There was only fire, the kind of burning and revengeful fire, and I wondered whether life wanted to say something to me or it was just time to stop playing with it. The second theory begs for approval, first in line in my mind. You see; sometimes people tend to make the worse out of a situation and we become revengeful with ourselves for someone else’s mistakes because we think we deserve it or just because we lost something that used to make us better humans. Perhaps that is what I am doing now. I have made consciously the worst of decisions and let people in my life make it more complicated. Have I become feverishly nonsensical? They say that when you wear an armour or a mask you should be careful not to lose yourself in it. Now I know they’re right.
It’s just ( and yes, “just”, because any other word would be unfit and too sophisticated for my current mentality) messy how people knock the door of your heart after leaving without saying a simple reason, possibly expecting you to open your arms and welcome them back warmly. You cannot do that even if it is what you desire most. Do not misunderstand me. I am in favour of second chances, sometimes maybe thirds , but no more. So perhaps that knock on my door disturbed my inner peace, if there was any lately, which I would doubt but still, I thought I had it all under control, I had all emotions turned off, or at least the parts that I wanted to forget for a while.
Obviously gentlemen my theories turned against me and the armour I equipped myself with became flesh of my own flesh. Isn’t it funny how life rolls gentlemen? Or it is not funny at all and the disturbance I feel makes every normal emotion that I should be feeling worthless of living inside me…
P.S. Or maybe I’m “a Bukowski” and there is nothing to be done but live in the sweetness of addictions.