a sparrow's journal

self prison

2011-04-02T17:01:00.000+01:00

Cry. Shout
The world inside.
Hear the freedom.
Conscious poison.

Cry of joy. Cry of sorrow.
Break and hurt.
Cross the barrier
Between the universe and self.
Close your eyes and stare
At the mirrored glass; shattered
From all words and worlds;
Choking inside.
Breathe.
Jump the queue.
Cry.
Lie to self
Into freedom.
For we are all imprisoned.

Conceptions and fears. Handcuffs and chains.
Weights of what ifs dragging inside.
Every day heavier.
Every day lighter.
Live a little. Hurt. Cry. Joys and sorrows.
Shout out life. Before the final blink.
Break. Self-poison and prison. Cry.
Smile. Shout.

play with fire

2011-03-31T10:50:00.000+01:00

Playing with fire is fun. Rules are there to be broken, lines to be crossed and queues to be jumped.

Life is too short or too long to live it badly, they say. Then why do we allow ourselves to ingurgitate the common way of thinking and acting? Why do we become little ghosts following predefined opinions? People no longer seem to be fighting their own fights. We aimlessly swallow the pills given by a society who seems to be lacking intelligence or genuine passion for life. Everything turns to grey and cold. We follow, we listen, and we obey. Then we go. Is there anything after that? Who knows? Maybe there is. What if there isn’t? Then we live this world of nothingness and lack of meaning to go into an eternity of darkness and numbness.

There is a phrase I recently came across which really got me thinking. “I repent of my diets, the delicious dishes rejected out of vanity, as much as I lament the opportunities for making love that I let go by because of pressing tasks or puritanical virtue.” (Isabel Allende, Aphrodite). Here is the thing. I do not believe in regrets. What is done is done. However, isn’t it better to find a scar then nothing at all in your past? From where I stand, I think it is better to live than think what if.

Mistakes are there to be made, fires to be consumed and passion to be felt; love to be breathed in and violently consumed, not feared.

While I was going through my troubled teenage years, I became increasingly frustrated by the idea that a perfect relationship does not exist. I grew up hearing my parent’s beautiful love story. Even now, 32 years of being together later, they still hold hands and steal a kiss off each other. They still enjoy every day they spend together. I want that. If I will not find the classical perfection, as only the lucky ones do, it would be a shame to just live a loveless and passionless life. In the meantime, I chose to feel. To breathe. To eat. To love everybody who crosses my path. Even if they are only there for a few days.

I do not want to miss out. Everything could go tomorrow. I could be crossing the street and get run over by a car in ten minutes after I will write this. A brick could fall on my head. In that last blink of an eye, when everything turns to nothing, I want to have scars to remind me I have truly been here. I want to think of all the laughter and all the tears, all the love and all the pain. Because they make the spices in life. It is a delicious dish if not rejected by the self-induced society commanded vanity.

So, play with fire. Get burnt. In the end, the scars will stand as a proof of your life.

An eagle for a day

2011-03-19T13:08:00.000Z

You know what irritates me? Giving up.

Everybody gets hurt and hurts. The world works that way. Nobody leads a tearless life. However, the whole beauty is in that moment when you get the strength to get back on the settle.

Over the time, I met different people from different backgrounds. Nevertheless, one common trait is the giving up. Here is the thing: we are all scared. There’s a saying where I am from:” who gets burnt with soup, blows into yoghurt”. I do not find anything wrong with being careful, not entrusting your soul with every other person out there happening to cross your path.

However, if you are too precarious, too engrossed in the idea that you cannot trust anybody, you lose. You miss those who were maybe worth of your love and attention.

I have been hurt and have caused others pain as well, most probably.

I am very familiar with the feeling of disappointment, as well. I know what it is like to wake up one day and realize that the one you love and to whom you gave everything does not feel the same anymore. I know the pain one goes through when it gets so intense that your entire body hurts.

All of us tasted, at one point or another, the salt in our break-ups and let downs.

However, that does not mean we should just give up.

Loneliness by Olof Erla Einarsdottir

A recurrent idea in most of my blog entries is that I believe there is a balance in everything: rough start, good end.

Here is how I see it. Let us say, on Monday you wake up and it’s pouring down, it is miserable outside and you think you should stay in. Not venture outside, because you are too afraid of being wet or struck by lightning. Therefore, on Monday, you pull all your curtains down and you spend the whole week inside the house. The weather forecast said heavy rain for the next seven days. You are in the house, in the dark and cold, moping around in numbness, waiting for the storm to go away. Wednesday, the sun starts shining. The trees are green, flowers open up and birds are chirping. Kids play in the park and your friends go to the beach. You are inside, with your curtains down, in the dark. Then on the next Monday, when you finally pull up your curtains, it's back to raining. Therefore, you pull them back down. Without having a clue of all the sun you have missed on.

This is how I see most of the things in life. It is a storm out there. Most of the time it is scary and foggy. Moreover, you do not know what is hiding behind the corner. On the other side of a mirrored glass.

If we spend our days being scared to be hurt, we will never know what happiness is.

Therefore, for all those out there, who are afraid, I advise keeping your curtains up. Open the window and let the wind, the rain or the sun wash away the old wounds. Make yourself available to fresh ones. Otherwise, we would have led a life full of precautions. Never burnt, never cut deep, but merely a scared little mouse hiding in the dark.

As they say, I would rather be an eagle for a day than a mouse for a lifetime.

I believe in love

2011-03-17T12:34:00.000Z

I believe in love.

The glue which keeps this world together. I am not referring exclusively to a romantic type of love. I am talking about the general feeling.

We love our family, our friends, a type of food, a certain song that we can never grow tired of.

The point I am trying to make here is that without love, in any way, shape or form, existence as such is merely an illusion. A self-delusion, as without feeling, we have no spirit and we can only be excuses of bodies. Clones filled with nothingness.

I used to believe, until quite recently, I shamefully admit, that without being in a relationship, I could not truly be happy. I am quite a dependent person in the sense that most times I need somebody’s attention and approval.

I have, however, started to mature and realize that I have the strength within me to overcome my problems all by myself. I am big girl now, I can quite handle it. They say that if God gives you a rough path to go through, he also provides adequate shoes. Well, I am putting those shoes on now. I will start walking with more confidence.

I love my friends and my family. Until that other half that everybody looks for with desperation will happen to cross my rough way, I chose to concentrate on the sun shining above instead of the hard road texture hurting my feet. I chose to hold my head up high instead of staring at the mud on my shoes.

I love writing. The passion and happiness that comes with this consuming love cannot possibly be compared with anything else. Writing is my greatest lover and comfort. It reminds me I have wings and that sky is the limit. Even if nobody will ever read a sentence I wrote. Even if with the competitive world we live in my chances at actually making a living out of it are incredibly limited, if any. However, I cannot live without it.

I was asked if I was scared about what the future has reserved for me. If I do not panic at the idea that I will not get the job I want. Of course I do! Doesn’t everybody? I stress about it every other bloody day. Nevertheless, I have recently learnt how to control that worry. I choose not to let it ruin the pleasure of the writing itself. For it is more rewarding than anything else I have ever done or even considered doing.

I believe in love. In any way, shape or form.

kiss your mother day

2011-03-08T15:46:00.002Z

These days it looks like I am simply not able to stop writing. On anything. About anything.

Since today is March 8, I need to express my feelings towards this day and what it means to me. Because I feel like it. Moreover, I need to get away from the main writing I am doing which is seriously toying with what is left of my sanity.

So, woman’s day today, eh? I guess it has different meanings to different cultures. Although internationally it started more like a feminist movement, exactly 100 years ago, in my country it has taken a turn into slightly different traditions. Oh well, we like to be special, I think. Yes, I remember it was only in yesterday’s post that I said I avoid talking about my Romanian backgrounds. In addition to not being able to keep away from the keyboard, which seems to be hypnotizing me more every day, I have also been feeling a bit home sick. Again, as I was mentioning yesterday, even if I no longer live in my country, I still miss certain aspects of our culture and traditions.

Enough with the rambling. Let us get back to today.

In some countries, such as Cameroon, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Serbia, Bulgaria and Romania the day is not a public holiday like in other countries all over the world but is widely observed nonetheless. It is also looked upon as an equivalent to Mother’s day.

I do not know specific traditions about other countries, so I will just resume to referring to my owns.

As I go back travelling in the foggy days of my childhood, 8^th of March has always been a special day for my mother and me. I would save up money for months at a time to afford a little gift in order to show my love and appreciation. For days in kindergarten and later on in primary and secondary school, I would be plotting with my friends at the time. It was almost like a competition to see which one of us would get the best gifts. We were obviously very young and we did not quite understand the concept of maternal love completely just yet. Little did we conceive back then that a mother’s love and care cannot be measured or weighted in gifts. I know that even if I had picked a flower from our garden, my mother would have been ecstatic and proud. Because I remembered.

It might sound slightly dramatic, but in case my readers have not noticed that until now, I am quite a dramatic person. Why do we need one day per year to show our appreciation towards our mothers, I will never quite understand. It is the same as I ask myself why, if in a relationship, we need Valentines Day to express our love. When you are in a loving relationship, no matter its nature, be it with a friend, a lover or a relative, why can’t we just make every day special? Why can’t we simply say ‘I love you’ when we feel it? Why can’t we show that love instead of verbalizing it ? That is a different topic.

So every year, for March 8 I would try my best to spoil my mother. And so did my father. Seeing her smiling and being overwhelmed with attention, made my heart sing with joy.

A mother’s job never ends. A mother is never too tired to kiss a bruise on her child’s knee. A mother’s never had enough of listening to a teenager’s moans and mood swings. A mother is always there, no matter what, where and why. She is always on duty. Therefore, every mother deserves to be treated like royalty from time to time. She needs to be reminded that her efforts did not go without being noticed.

Today I am miles and miles away from mine. I have always considered myself being a mature independent individual and I was never really a mother’s child. I used to think at times that her love was slightly suffocating and overbearing. However, today I find myself missing her. A lot. I wish I could be there to give her a flower, to cook her dinner and to spoil her a bit. To tell her how much I love her and that she means the world to me.

I cannot. Instead, I urge all of you out there, even if you don’t celebrate mother’s day today or at any other time, to give a kiss to your mother. To remind her you know and understand everything.

correction

2011-03-07T18:06:00.000Z

Usually I avoid as much as possible to post anything related to my Romanian backgrounds.

However, there is an article that I read today which urges me to break this self given rule.

The article talks about the world’s youngest grandmother, a 23-year-old Romanian.

Therefore, I feel I absolutely need to comment.

The author did not mention the woman’s ethnicity. Just because she has a Romanian ID card or passport does NOT make her a Romanian.

I am sick and tired of people all over Europe being amazed when I say where I am from. You know why they have such reactions? Because I do not have a dark complexion, which Rromani gypsies do.

Let me be clear. I am not saying I have anything against them, but other countries need to understand that although they are a tolerated minority, we do NOT share the same traditions, customs or way of living. We are not such a backwards country, as everybody seems to believe. Just because they still live in tribes in little villages and follow a custom to pee in the back garden, does not mean we do. Just because they (some, not all) go begging around the world or pocket picking, does not mean we do. Oh, and we have houses and flats, not caravans. We are car owners; we do not ride horses in the capital city.

Romanians are capable, intelligent people.

There are so many things I consider wrong with my country, I do not even know where to begin explaining. Moreover, I will not here, because it might turn into a rather long read. However, I will say that one of our biggest issues seems to be the gypsy minority. Which, if you ask me, in 50 years or so, will no longer be that much of a minority, sadly. Why? Because Romanians these days tend to form families at a later age, having one child per household, if that. I say that referring to those who still live in the mother country. Nevertheless, more and more people, myself included, chose to flee. To leave everything behind in the hope of a better life. Gypsies however, get married before they reach 15 and have at least four or five kids by the time they reach 25. In that rate, Romanians will soon be an extinct population. Sad, but predictable.

Again, I do not mean to offend anybody and I do not state any hate towards any ethnicity. I was incredibly sad to see once again, that my country’s image is built on that of the gypsy culture. This, with the risk of repeating myself, is not the same as ours, the rest of Romanian citizens. The few of us left untouched by other ethnic groups.

I love my country and I love my traditions. I miss it and I miss being able to speak my own language at times. Nevertheless, with the way things tend to be going, I do not see myself ever going back for good.

drown

2011-03-06T19:19:00.000Z

I am drowning. I don’t know why

I thought I could swim, but my arms are numb.

I fight I struggle, but I forgot how to breathe.

It’s dark down here

I wish I saw light, but nothingness;

My arms still numb,

My feet, they do not listen

My mind blocks

I drown, I drown.

Until no more thoughts.

No more.

Black.

the freakin' circle and my utopian world

2011-03-03T02:58:00.000Z

I wish I would remember how to be a child. When I had no sense of inhibition or self-censorship. Before I learnt that society has rules and you cannot always speak your mind.

Good communication in a world of false mannerism and hypocrisy is hard to come by. Even best friends at times find it hard to say what is on their mind. Because we have been taught to shut it. Well, not all of us, but they certainly tried to shut me up when I was growing up. I was told to watch what comes out. Not that I always took the advice, I still have a lot of trouble with holding some things in. On the other hand, I seem to be holding in what should be coming out. It is a freakin’ circle. Again, with this circle which seems to become a recurrent motive in life.

At times, I wish I could go back to being naïve and not caring at all. I do not really remember if there was ever a time when I truly did not care. I might have become self-conscious at a relatively early age.But I wish I could invent this utopian world where people would speak from their heart, instead of spilling out brainless prefabricated phrases because that is the proper way to do it.

I want to be able to say “I love you” without being afraid that the person to whom I wish to say it would run for their life in the opposite direction.

I want to be able to say something like “I think you’re cool and I wanna be friends” without it sounding ridiculous.

I want to be able to get outside of the freakin’ box more. To break it because frankly, I find myself quite claustrophobic lately.

Also, I would like to say to some :“get over yourself! Seriously, get the fucking stick out of your arse and stop pretending to be such a know-it-all, you self-conscious , self-absorbed little prick!”

Well, there, maybe I did not say it face to face, but it still came out one way or another. I feel better, although I still want that utopian world where my forced to stay in opinions would not strangle me into bitterness.

procrastinate much?

2011-02-20T23:02:00.000Z

So I woke up this morning. Well, morning is more like a figure of speech. Some people might have even finished work by the time I got out of bed. At 4 pm that is. Well, I have an excuse, I say to myself. I was up until 6 am. Why, one might ask. Well, I was trying to do some work. In addition, I had woken up late the day before. And so on. You get the idea. Therefore, I was trying to do some, work. Trying.

However, let us get back to waking up. So I got out of bed, brushed my teeth and rushed downstairs half panicking, knowing it’s already afternoon and I am oh so lazy and feel so guilty for wasting so much of the day. While I pour the steaming coffee into my soup bowl looking mug, I realize it is already starting to get dark. It reminds me of how much I miss summer. I light up a cigarette and put some fast tunes on my phone. Yes, I will be productive today. It is already 4.45. Hmmm, might as well enjoy my coffee before I get to work. I open my laptop and obviously my parents are on Skype and I will have to talk to them. 6 o’clock.

I am hungry. Sadly, the fridge has been empty for a few days, since I do not seem to manage waking up before the grocery shop closes. Therefore, I put on my boots and a jacket over my pj's and run to the corner shop. I obviously buy some more fags, in case I run out during my attempting to work. When the genius will strike. Obviously, I need stimulants. Therefore, I also purchase a copious amount of chocolate and other sugary calorie-bombarded products that I will later on regret buying. However, I will eat them anyways. 8 o’clock. Shit, it is dark out there!

People are planning to go out tonight. Should I? No, I should stay in and try to work. Nevertheless, I feel stressed and uninspired. I will probably end up not doing anything anyways. While I could be out there, enjoying the last few months of being a student. Plus, I have been in the house, reading and trying to write for so long. I actually convince myself I need to go out because that would surely put me in a better mood and somehow help my work.

5 am. I managed to kick everybody out of the house and I will go to sleep. Slightly unsecure over my body balance, I try typing a few words, remembering some of the greatest writers in this world were drunks. However, trying to tell the words apart while the monitor does not seem to be sitting still appears to nauseate me. Therefore, it is better to go to sleep. I will wake up in a few hours and then I will be productive.

I wake up in the morning. Well, I say morning, but people have probably already finished work. But no, today I am not going to waste anymore time. I start typing and I will find the whole in the paper. God damn it, I can do this!

kissing sounds

2011-02-06T17:18:00.004Z

The only thing I could compare that awful deafening noise with, was couples smooching until their lips disappeared. Seriously, no joke. The worst part of it; they were doing that inside my head. I could not get away from it. Therefore, I decided something had to be done. My choice of a plan for reinstalling peace and quiet was not the smartest, as it turned out.

“You always made me fear that I gave birth to a retarded child when you pulled stunts like that”, my mother once admitted at the memory of the eight stitches I needed after I repeatedly banged my head against the wall that day. I was seven, I think, when my mind was invaded. First, there were annoying sounds. Then they turned into words. I did not know or understand where exactly they were coming from. Today, oh so many years later, I think I still have not resolved that mystery.

I stare at the wall in my old bedroom. Meanwhile, my mother turned it into a little library. “Well, you always had books scattered around everywhere, anyways. This room is still your bedroom, even with no bed in it”, she said when I came to visit one day and discovered the change. She was right. Besides, insomnia has been a constant presence in my life for as long as I can remember. Books have always been my best friends. They would be the only ones helping to escape THEM.

I stare at the wall and I can almost feel the smell of blood dripping down my face. Taste its stale iron on my tongue. Maybe if I look close enough, I can see the stain that my skull being smashed against it left behind. On the other hand, maybe I am just imagining things. I run my fingers on the surface of the Harry Potter-looking scar on my forehead. It is there to torture me; it will not let me forget. I lean against the once white wall and close my eyes. So many memories and so many different people. All inside. That was the beginning of an agonizing journey. If only I knew then what I do now, maybe I would have banged harder. Maybe I would not have stopped. Then I would have avoided so many years of pain and arguments with myself. However, I did not.

I am tempted to finish the job. I take a step back and analyze the hard texture of the brick wall. Yeah, it looks like it could do the trick. Besides, I have more strength now; I could make the impact harder. Maybe it will not even take that many hits. However, I cannot. I am too much of a coward. “You have commitment issues”, so many of my exes told me when I would decide it was time to end the lies I was allowing myself to believe. I am incapable, as it seems, to finish anything I start. Even if it means stopping THEM. The voices will never go away.

I sigh and I close my eyes, taste the iron on my lips, listen to the smooching sound, and feel the burn on the now wrinkled skin around my scar.

shhhhtt...

2011-02-03T15:05:00.000Z

No, this is not a good place to think. On the couch. More voices. At the table. Even more voices! Shouting, screaming at her from the inside. Everything seems to be creeping out at the same time. Which one of them should she listen to? Call him! No, let him call you first. Work. You need time off. No, keep on working, do not give up. I am tired, I need sleep. Cannot sleep. Cry. Do not be weak. You are not strong enough, you are going to give up, stop lying to yourself.

So tired…

Almost collapsed on the floor, her hands tighten around an old over read copy of Dostoyevsky’s “Demons”. Tears of anger, frustrated tears, torturous thoughts are creeping out of her insides, finding the little wholes in the corners of her eyes. Her head hurts. Cannot take it anymore. They need to fucking shut up! She cries, and she cries…until the tears run dry on her flushed cheeks. Looking down at her hands, she notices uncontrollable shakes. She takes a deep breath, lets go of the book. She goes to the kitchen. From abusing the crying ability of the human body, one might become dehydrated. The water is cold, tickling her tongue, her throat; she feels it washing her insides. The tap is still running loudly. It almost makes an annoying little screech, resonating her voices that again, seem to become louder. And louder. She opens the backdoor, steps outside. She takes a long careful look at the garden wall. Then stares for a bit at the glass in her hands. Back at the wall. Back at the glass. Fuck it! Just shut up! She throws the glass at the wall with all her strength. Now she is watching all the million little particles left of it. Of the voices. It is quiet now.

She goes back to the living room. She sits down in front of the laptop. I am going to be alright. Peaceful exhaustion washes over her burning eyelids. After all, tomorrow is another day. And the world needs to be on hold for now.

Falling

2011-01-29T19:32:00.001Z

Hurry. Sweat dripping down your face. You cannot breathe. However, you persist. The little dribbles of anxiety push through your lashes, mute your sight and blind your hearing. Numbness takes over. Everything is uncertain, doubtful and indistinct. Thoughts and decisions, impulses and frustrations run through your head aimlessly, slamming against a deadening and cruel familiar fear. You cannot hinder. Must run. You collapse and you get up. You run. Your clothes are in the way. You rip them off with anger. That is right, anger. You scream. You rip. You scream. You bleed. You hurt. It drains you. Nevertheless, you do not stop. You cannot. Your mouth is sore. Your throat is dry. You frown; you scream and shout in the nothingness surrounding you. You hear echoes of desperation and rage. It is yours, but you deny it. It is the voice of worthlessness. Mixed with sweat, tears stream down your face. You feel your fists clenching anger, refusing to obey.

You fall and you get up. You run. You are naked and cold. You push away the branches attacking you. The forest is dark. Wipe the salty water from your face. Faster. Do not stop. Faster. You cannot feel your legs. However, you do not give up. It rains. It pours down on you with whipping sounds of your inevitable imminent immersion. You are shaking. Your hands and feet are scratched and cold bleeding sedates you. It takes you outside your own self, showing you a caricature of what you were before. You have no control. You scream and shout like a monster waiting to be released from a cage of grotesque madness and fury. You want to hurt. Your pain addicts you shamelessly to the nothingness. You look down... you are falling. There is only black emptiness under your feet. You tremble and resist. Nevertheless, it swallows you merciless. You cannot fight anymore and you surrender in your childish nightmares and potent deadening fear. They overpower you feeble senses, crushing the traces of your hope, which only seems like a distant memory now. You hug yourself and feel baby’s tears inconsolably coming down your face.

You wake up and you cry yourself back to sleep, hoping for peace.

empty

2011-01-26T09:27:00.001Z

She wakes up. Not awake. Going downstairs, there is nobody. The kitchen- empty as well. No food in the fridge. No coffee in the pot. No mail next to the front door.

Turning on the laptop, a familiar feeling of awkwardness mixed with déjà vu. All the twitter followers gone. Following list: 0. Twitter refuses to connect. Moving on to Facebook. The wall is empty. Friends: 0. No updates, no comments, the chat is empty. Facebook disconnects as well.

She is not giving up. Mail. Nothing. Just the empty white screen. YouTube, let's listen to something. YouTube disconnects as well! What the hell?

Internet connection is gone. OK, so it's the Internet. Maybe she forgot to pay the bill. Again.

She gets her phone out and the bankcard. She tries to make the healing transaction. No answer. Phone disconnects itself. Network unavailable. In the meantime, laptop shuts itself down. OK, this is a weird day.

She opens the window. Dead quiet. Only the winter wind traveling through the naked trees. She looks to see that everything seems abandoned, static. An empty bag of crisps moving around in circles, mastered by the cold air. She goes outside.

Nobody. Nothing. She starts walking faster to town centre. There has to be somebody! She runs. Faster. Drops of sweat running down her wrinkled forehead. Wrinkled? Since when? Her lips are dry; she needs a drink of water. She stops and tries to catch her breath. Can’t breathe! Looking down at her hands, there are age stains, veins sticking out, the skin is rough. She looks around with panic and confusion. Nobody, nothing, the bank is gone, shops are empty, glasses are broken. Yellow leaves dance around in circles. Not a single soul. A shop with one window still standing. Moving closer to it, her heart starts sending alarm signals. It hurts. Closer. Her mouth opens involuntarily at the sight of the reflection. Staring back from the cracked glass, there is an old woman. She touches her face; the old woman does the same. Her fingers feel dry, travelling through the wrinkles of her skin. The clothes are too small. Fat and excess skin is bursting out through every little rip. Wrinkled skin. Everything hurts. It's cold. And there's nobody. She screams and she cries.

The old woman staring back from the cracked glass screams and cries as well.

perfection

2011-01-23T22:07:00.004Z

Maybe knowing oneself is hard at any age.

Maybe we keep looking for the meaning of our existence just to oversee the obvious staring us in the eye.

Why am I here? Why do I have these feelings and why can’t I just snap my fingers and make everything better? Why isn’t anything turning out the way I planned it? Why do I have to go through one disappointment after another? Why are some so mean and deceitful?

I strongly believe there is a balance in this world. And that in its entirety, our existence is actually perfect. It just takes a while to realize it, that’s it. Yes, things are hard, but where would the fun be if everything would be just perfect?

I look at the world surrounding me like a white canvas. And I am the brush. It’s up to me to choose my theme and to make whatever I want from it. My feelings, my experiences and my perspective, are they bleak or filled with joy, make the colors. Now, don’t get me wrong, these are just theories I like to believe in. A mere desideratum if you would like. Nothing is utopian and my thoughts and personality do not make an exception from the general rule of living. I am, most likely, a pessimist, although I like to think I am more of a realist. But somehow, sometime, I do manage to escape the pettiness of everyday's almost repetitive happenings and take a step back.Admire the hidden, eyt so obvious perfection of ...well, life.

For every bad experience I have been through, for every tear I’ve shed, there is one moment of extreme happiness. One of those excruciatingly beautiful experiences, when I think my heart is going to explode. For every hurtful word I have been addressed, there is one of kindness and love. For every person who disappointed and hurt me, there is a loyal loving friend holding my hand through it all. Confusion is followed by decision. For every “I hate you” there is an “I love you” sooner or later. Moreover, an eventual gain follows every loss. The glass is half empty, but half full. It all depends on the perspective.

I believe in heaven and hell. Maybe we experience both through a lifetime.

Life is filled with imperfections that coexist in perfection.

Therefore, I believe life is perfect.

Don't stop talking, please

2011-01-15T02:41:00.002Z

I still remember when I wrote the first essay that got noticed. When I was 10, I went to a Language and Literature contest. And I was asked to write about my idol. I remember staring at the paper, thinking I don’t really have an idol. Who did I look up to? Who did I admire? And then, looking at this old painting of a cascade hung on the wall, I realized what an important part my mother played in my life. And what a strong person she is, despite the appearances. She looks maybe weak to some, easily broken. But nobody knows her like I do. And nobody knows what she’s been through like I do. And even now, I look up to her. Do I want her life style? No. do I want to be like her? In some ways, yes. Because no matter how hard things get, no matter the drama surrounding her, she still kept her sanity. And that’s enough for me.

Anyways, long story short, that essay got me to win first prize capital level, and go national. That was the first time I was told I can write. I didn’t believe them, because I lacked confidence. And maybe, in some ways, I still do. I always wonder what if they don’t like it. What if its’ a really bad piece of writing and here I stand, lying to myself, thinking it’s any good?

Well, even if my writing might not be the greatest, even if I’m not a genius, I can’t imagine myself living a life without it. It’s the last semester of uni and it terrifies me. What if after I finish I won’t be able to get into writing for a living? And I’ll end up in a job I resent, 40 hours per week? I won’t have time for escaping in my own world anymore. I won’t listen to the voices begging to break free. I would be sad and depressed. Empty. And I would lead a meaningless life.

It scares me so much to think of that possibility. I look around me and people have plans. They know what they’ll do. I don’t. And I get incredibly depressed thinking about it. If I can’t live in my world, I’ll have to face the real world. And it’s a bleak, fatal outcome for my spirit. I don’t want to be forced into that. I want to continue listening to my voices. All of them. Because over the time, they have been the only loyal friends. Because they never lie or cheat. Because they trust and confide in me. And I love listening to them.

I still remember when I first started writing. And I don’t want them to stop talking to me.

give me back the key

2011-01-06T19:58:00.002Z

I am sitting here in my extremely comfortable armchair. It’s my “writing chair” how I like to call it. And I am trying to write. Only the door won’t open. My magical getaway is temporarily locked, as it may sadly seem.

Every time I get down, every time I feel overwhelmed by the real world, I succumb in my own. In a world that always welcomes me with its infinite creative arms wide open. A world where everything can happen, a world where I am almost godlike and my ego is constantly fed by the flow of thoughts bursting in uninvited. And it’s like magic. All of the sudden, things are better. Even if it’s dark outside, I can feel the sweet warmth of a sunrise by the sea.

But for the past few days, I can’t go anywhere. I’ve been sitting here. In the house, in the writing chair feeling cold and empty. Because nothing seems to flow anymore. I am stuck in reality. And it’s almost painful.

The thing is every time I feel as down as I do now, I turn to writing. Only this time, it’s the lack of it which makes me sad. It’s an annoyingly vicious circle. I seem to have lost the key to the door which opens my world. Maybe I have lost it at work; maybe I am all of the sudden too anchored in the actual reality surrounding me. Although reality has always seemed like a bit of an abstract concept to me.

Sometimes it feels like this world, which seems real to everybody else has taken everything away from me. And it won’t even let me escape it anymore. It keeps me in prison because it realized that I had found a way to be free. And it’s now punishing me.

But I am determined to find the key.

I want to feel the breeze blowing in my hair; I want to hear them talk to me again. I feel lonely. Because I miss my characters.

So I am now desperately searching for the key. If you happen to stumble upon it, use with caution and return to owner, please.

one, two...A.

2011-01-02T17:40:00.000Z

She lit up the candles; a sweet scent of dark cherries filled the room. The armchair welcomed her in its comforting embrace. Soft piano music in the background, Dickens’s Little Dorrit was fighting with Austen’s Northanger Abbey for her attention. Oh how she was spoiled.

Watching the bare streets from her frozen window, she became grateful for the warmth in her house and the hot tea in her hands.

There were always two people fighting inside her head. But she had become so familiar with their often quarrels, she would probably miss them if they were ever to come to an agreement. One longed for people, enjoyed parties, sweet euphoria of being out there, of catching the attention. One longed for the spot. Two fought for peace and tranquility. Two was tired, wanted nothing more but this moment to share with eternity. Two hated the attention, the gossip her presence had sometimes caused. Two wanted to live in a book. Two wanted to escape reality and run away from the suffocating crowd waiting outside this day’s frozen doors and windows.

She was sitting there, comforted by her armchair, confused. Free time was an almost abstract concept for such a long time, that she didn’t really know how to deal with it. Should she clean some more? Should she do laundry? Should she write? Should she call somebody? Did she want to talk to people? Did she want to burst this lovely bubble she was in right now?

Beethoven in the background, candles burning, the taste of tea, the warmth of her living room, Dickens’s little Dorrit… the outside world could wait for another day. She wasn’t lonely. The truth is at this moment, A. had no desire or energy to interact. Or to be in any other world besides her own. She was alone by choice.

The rest of the world could wait for another day.

A.

2010-12-16T16:03:00.000Z

"She rushed downstairs when hearing the mail. Quickly picked up the letters and opened the door to look outside. The postman was already gone. She would have liked to say hello.

She went to the kitchen, turned on the coffee maker and lit up a cigarette. The house was dead silent. All she could hear was the air in the heaters. The landlord had promised to air them ever since last year. Good idea. Call the landlord. Oh, voicemail.

She started browsing through her contact list. Who could she call? It was Christmas time and people were either with their families, either away on holidays. She had the day off, but no family to spend it with. They were all at the other end of Europe. No holiday plans either. Being unemployed for a few months can have a drastic effect on your savings account. Alone in the house.

She opened the fridge. A bottle of ketchup, some lemon juice, a drop of milk probably expired a week ago. Nothing else. She lit up another cigarette. Opening the window, she felt the cold winter wind. She took a deep breath.

A. started then cleaning the fridge. Scrubbing with what seemed to be all her energy. Then the stove. The oven. The sink. The walls, the floor. That only killed two hours. She went to the living room and sat down in the comfortable armchair with a huge cup of coffee. Crossed her legs, started sipping the steaming black liquid from her huge mug which resembled a soup bowl. She was staring at the Marilyn Monroe painting on the wall facing her. A tear started making its way down her cheek. She was alone. And she felt lonely."

a breather

2010-12-15T04:47:00.000Z

There are a few moments in life when you stop. You take a step back and a breather. Staring amazed, you suddenly realize where you are. And for that brief moment in time, which might not ever come back, you are happy. As happy as one can be. Take a deep breath and absorb the perfection of that particular second. It’s unique. Like every other second in your life, but there's more to this one than the others. why? who knows? You see everything clearly. You acknowledge the fact that you are so incredibly lucky. To be alive. To know, to question, to wish, to dream, to love and be loved, to trust and to be trusted. To be deceived, disappointed. To experience. To live.

I’ve just had one of those moments. The joy’s almost left me now, because it always goes away so fast. It’s like a lightening. And it hit me. I am happy. Right now. In a few minutes, I’ll probably go back to stressing and being my usual self. Leaning over the laptop, building up frustration verging depression rendered by the apparent incapacity of putting my thoughts down in an organized way. But that will be in a few moments.

What disrupts this beautiful feeling is its brevity. And the fact that almost instantaneously, I go back to the petty worries. That I am one those people who worry too much, who over think and overanalyze. And although I struggle with it and try my best not to be that person and to ruin the few brain cells I have left with crappy little things that I know will go away soon, it’s who I am. And unfortunately, I can’t really change it. And maybe I don’t really want to either. I am a passionate person and I experience things in an almost extreme manner. Yes, I can be a drama queen at times and some might object it. But hey, nobody is forcing you to be my friend. I know who I am and I am quite happy with it. And living everything to a higher level has its upside. When I am happy, my heart literally feels like it’s going to explode. When I love, I would do anything for that person. And for family I would die in a heartbeat. Or kill, depending on the situation.

But right now I choose to take a breather and take this ephemeral moment in. Too bad I don’t do this more often. It might make me smile more.

jumping off a cliff

2010-12-02T12:13:00.000Z

Dammit. Whenever I have time (rendered by a rather constant factor in my life lately- some call it insomnia) I don’t seem to be capable of writing. When I am shattered and on the run, that’s when I feel like my brain is bursting and the tips of my fingers itch. Like now.

Right. I don’t have long, since I only just took a break from writing a script ( after staring at the plain word document for hours last night, go figure, it started flowing now when I need to leave the house).

Under the light of recent events affecting my well being recently, such as insomnia, since it’s been confusing me a lot lately, I have to say, I believe to have had a series of revelations.

Now, don’t take my word for it, as I am very sleep depraved and my mind seems to be wondering even more than usually lately. Hell, I don’t even follow myself.

As I was saying, revelations.

I was reading an article the other night (another sleepless night filled with more frustration due to incapacity of forming sentences in an organized way –some call it writing). Anyways, the article in question was treating the idea that insomnia and depression go together. You know, like “love and marriage/go together like a horse and carriage” (God I had a sad childhood watching that show).

So, although not scientifically proven because it’s unethical and cruel to deprave somebody from sleep for the pure desire of watching them getting depressed, there is a strong obvious connection between the two.

So what do you know? My insomnia has a reason. Or maybe my depression’s reason is insomnia. Which way around? Well, I am a writer (very frustrated lately, may I add), so isn’t that in itself self-explanatory for being depressed? Then why did the insomnia only started kicking in a few months ago? (Maybe a year tops).

But I will embrace both my insomnia and my depression for now. I think the best way to beat your enemy is confront it and look at it in the eye. So, I will accept and embrace them.

After this rather enlightening article, I read yet another one. “How to beat depression”. Now, that’s a tricky one. I am a little drama queen who tends to take things very personally, although frequently posing as a tough cookie. I stress and I over think and I care too much about meaningless things and people. And to top it up, I am a writer. Aren’t all those enough reasons to be depressed?

But back to the point. Beat depression. It said there, make a list with the good things in your life. Right. I see them, but the left side of the list weights more, I am afraid. What can I say; I am a realist at all the wrong times.

Well, now I am running out of time, because I am dying to go back to my script to finish a scene. And I need to go outside the house and face the killing blizzard that paralyzed England.

But I started writing this post after I found a quote that I thought to be particularly inspiring. Maybe it only applies to me. But I don’t want to be selfish, so I’ll share it. “Go to the edge of the cliff and jump off. Build your wings on the way down.”

As I said, I am the type of person who over thinks and over analyses. But I am also a person of extremes. As in I can go from over thinking to not thinking at all in the blink of an eye. And several times in my life, I took that dive. I jumped off the cliff. And what do you know? I found my own wings on the way down. True, most of the time I found them when I thought that was it and I was dangerously close to a deadly end. But I found them. And that’s the idea. I believe in life we need to take risks and from time to time, we need to jump head forward and we need to let go of the tremendous weights of fear. At least I know I do.

So now excuse me while I go and jump off a cliff.

trust

2010-11-30T20:43:00.000Z

We fight. And we fight. And then we fight some more.

Everything is a struggle, a string of events marking us, rendering an always older reflection in the mirror.

My question is, when can I stop? When is it that I will reach that point when I will be happy? When I would be able to let go of everything and feel ?

People are hardly ever what they seem to be. We all wear masks of what we think others want to see in us. I am tired of getting up in the morning and putting that mask on. I want to be myself. But I have been acting for such a long time that at some point, I seem to have lost myself.

I make the same mistake over and over again. I trust. I have been disappointed more times then I can count. And still, I trust. Why? Is it because I am afraid of being alone? Maybe I am lying to myself. What if all these people that I consider my friends are really completely different from what I perceive them as being?

But not trusting and not letting anybody in would just be…well, sad. That would truly make me lonely. At times, I can hardly believe in myself, how can I judge others then? I have no right. And I know that all those who have done me wrong have an excuse for it. I believe there’s a reason why we became who we are.

Maybe I am naïve, but I don’t think anybody is completely evil. I believe everybody is good deep down, but we all make mistakes. And we should stop pointing fingers and learn how to trust again.

searching for the sun

2010-11-22T18:04:00.003Z

What is happiness? Where is it to be found?

Life is a journey, a constant endless search for that little glimpse of joy. When you feel so good that you actually think you might explode form the inside. When you can’t hold it in anymore, when everything is so great, you almost want to cry. This makes all the rest of it worth it.

Smell of honey on toast when you wake up in the morning as a child. When you grandmother gently strokes your pink childish cheeks watching you wake up.

Pale touch of morning sun at the seaside. Smell of wind, youth and purity. The waves smashing in a wild, yet perfect rhythm against the dry rocks.

Chirping birds in a lazy afternoon.

Fingertips moving in a wild frenzy over the keyboard. Ideas flashing, the fight to catch and immortalize them.

A first kiss which makes you feel like you’re the only one in the world who matters.

Where is happiness to be found?

Under a burning childhood sun. When innocence is normal. Before you commence the journey inside the vortex. When you have no duties, no purpose just yet. When you are free and you haven’t even thought of that concept yet. When you feel protected because mummy and daddy will be there forever. When your only tears are shed because you tripped on a cable and bruised your knees.

Under a burning childhood sun. Under which, no matter how hard you try, you can never lie still again. Because you’ve grown.

But I want that again. I want the smell of honey on toast. And her gentle stroke waking me up. The kind look, the feeling of protection. I want that again.

Because life is a journey. In search of the childhood sun.

throw the first rock

2010-11-20T17:57:00.002Z

Everybody has opinions. Advice. Preconceived ideas, although we like to believe we don’t. We all judge and think we’re smarter than the rest. Well maybe we’re not.

Maybe we lead ourselves to believe we’re better, when the truth is we based that on the fact that we don’t really take the time in actually knowing anyone anymore. This doesn’t make us better. It makes us shallow and infatuated.

We all make mistakes. But the hardest part is admitting it. And trying to do something to make it better before it’s too late. We want to believe we are intelligent and deep. When really, we just judge a person from the first minute we lay eyes on them. Let’s be honest, we don’t really give others chances. Once we label somebody, it’s hard to change our opinion. Why don’t we take those criticizing eyes and use them for the reflection in the mirror instead?

I think I know you, but I only know a few things about you. I have put you already in a category and if I think you’re thick, I won’t even bother knowing anything about you anymore. Maybe you just had a bad day when I first met you. Maybe you were exhausted or hangover. But I considered you weren’t up to having an intelligent conversation and I concluded you are stupid. Moving on to the next instant labeling.

You see a girl in a club; she’s hitting on all the men there, acting slutty. That’s it, she’s slutty. Maybe she’s just really drunk and she just broke up with her boyfriend. Maybe she’s just incredibly lonely and she’s desperate for attention and affection. Or maybe she really wants to get some that night. Who are you to judge her?

You see me shouting, you label me as hysterical. You see me crying, I am melodramatic. Or a drama queen. Danger. Maybe I am just going through a rough patch. Maybe I am just going through a really bad depression and I am acting out.

We don’t know each other. Everybody has their own way of dealing with things. Why do we need to make it all worse for ourselves by perpetuating what we mostly take pride in lacking? Preconceived ideas, prejudices, and shallow self-centered opinions.

May the one with no sin throw the first rock.

stranger

2010-11-19T02:29:00.000Z

And sometimes, just sometimes, you feel like everything is just….well, strange. You look in the mirror and you end up surprised. You look around and you are amazed. It’s like, all of the sudden, you realize everything has changed. So much. And you’ve forgotten how to look and acknowledge for the past few years.

You take a long look at everything that surrounds you and you find everything to be so strange, so unfamiliar. You stare at yourself, friends with people whom you’d never consider being able to exchange a word with.

You find yourself in a different country, speaking another language. Or maybe that’s just me.

Ok. I look in the mirror and I see a stranger who speaks another language. A stranger who has cut her hair and stopped writing a diary. She has exchanged the private paper little notebook for a cold writing on the Internet. She has exchanged Romanian for English. She hasn’t read in her own language for more than two years. She finds herself missing traditional music, although never a fan when back home. She has a different style now. She pretends. To be ok. She is dramatic. “A drama queen”, some may think. She acts. She has been compromising a lot. Until the point where there is probably no going back to the honest and the naïve.

I look in the mirror and I no longer see an innocent girl. I see a confused woman who has forgotten how to be strong at times. I see a tired old woman staring back and begging me to stop this self destruction.

I no longer recognize myself at times. And what hurts the most is I have nobody near me that could be a reflection of what I used to be. Because I see a woman who doesn’t speak Romanian everyday anymore. Because I no longer recognize that reflection.

And because sometimes, just sometimes, you feel like everything is strange.

I need my fix

2010-11-18T21:16:00.003Z

One of the things I love in this life is writing. The feeling I get when I finish a plot or a character, when I come up with a good idea, when I write a good dialogue…can’t be described in words. It’s like a drug. I just want more and more and I can never get tired of it.

Yes, I love writing. But, as they say, writers are usually frustrated depressed people who never seem to be happy. Well, I guess I chose the right profession then. I have realized I best write when I have something on my mind, when I am depressed, when I need a place to get away from it all. So I succumb in the world that I create. My character takes me to different places, where I am not judged, where I don’t need to please anybody. I concentrate on their life, not mine. I suffer for them, not for me. And I experience passion, love and happiness through their eyes.

But lately, they won’t talk to me anymore. God, I am afraid I just sounded a little bit schizophrenic there.

Well, lately I don’t know what happened; I am experiencing an awful block. It tortures me to constantly stick to reality. It makes me even sad. Then I should write more, shouldn’t I? Why can’t I write? Well, I can. But when I read I hate it and I get even more depressed.

Hmmm, maybe I need to force myself into it. Maybe if I make a huge cup of black coffee and smoke a few fags, it will get me in the mood. I will sit down and start writing. Damn it, I’ll make them talk to me. I need my fix.