The relativity of a corroded mind

Broken pencil poetry. Eternal

2024-08-11T02:57:00.000+03:00

Eternal
11 August 2024

There is a town
On the edge of time,
In the heart of nowhere
And in this town there is a garden,
Where trees stretch tall
Into the sky,
Old and wise,
Eternal trees.

And in this garden
There is a statue
White marble, pure and smooth,
A statue of a maiden,
Her lovely face lowered,
Tears frozen cold on her cheeks,
Fallen to her knees,
Bent down
In eternal subjugation.

People would pass by,
Glance at her,
Not seeing,
Not thinking,
Forgetting her,
The eternal porcelain shadow.

One day, a weary traveller
Drifts down a dusty path
And sees her.
He stops.
Saddened, he reaches out to her,
Placing a warm hand
On her stone-cold locks,
And a wind rustles
In the eternal trees.

He turns
And leaves.
His steps rustle the pebbles.
His steps,
But then other steps,
Sprightly and quick,
Catching up with him,
Lighthearted steps,
Free from eternity.

She stops before him
And he stops too.
And she smiles a warm smile,
Warm and bright
And whispers softly
"Thank you!"

Sarcastic recipe: Meringues

2024-05-09T17:36:00.000+03:00

Foreword: Yes, this "recipe" has a foreword. Because it is not an ordinary recipe, but one that can think and talk and has opinions. Many opinions, most of them sarcastic. And the entire discourse is in fact addressed to myself, not towards the reader. The idea stemmed from my recent failed attempt at making meringues and my (possibly failed attempt once again at) taking notes for next time. It's just for a bit of cheeky fun. ^^

*****************

So, you think you can bake? You've already got plenty of cookies and pastries under your belt? And while keeping those there is at least questionable, let me tell you straight off that the banal meringue is going to trip you off your baker throne.

You'll need some egg whites, which you will most likely have left over from another recipe that uses only yolks. Why else would you make meringues? But, since you're a master procrastinator, you will wait too long to use those saved egg whites, so you will be afraid they're too old and throw them away. So you will have to separate more eggs specifically for meringues. Which defies the whole "leftover whites" idea. At least you won't make some more grand thing out of the leftover yolks. Good thing for omelets, huh? So, you will use a random quantity of egg whites (let's say 160g), then double that will be the amount of sugar, plus a bit of vanilla sugar. And a teaspoon of vinegar.

First of all, get everything ready. All the ingredients and all the tools. You won't have time to catch your breath after you get started. What tools? Read the recipe ahead if you want to find out.

Quantities are crucial, but I won't tell you the proportion of vinegar to everything else. Do the calculations yourself. Get those brain gears turning. It's good for you.

Next, put all the ingredients in a bowl and heat them over a pot of boiling water. All the ingredients. You forgot the vinegar. And in the rush of things, you forget your calculations and just put double the amount of vinegar. Damn! That's exactly the secret amount only pros use, but I didn't want to tell it to a novice like you. Ah well...

Heat the whole thing up to 70 degrees. Celsius. Unless you prefer Kelvin. But for that, you'd have to do your own calculations. What do you mean, you don't have a candy thermometer?

Once it's heated up (as well as can be reasonably expected given the circumstances), use the mixer on top speed to beat the whole thing until you get stiff peaks. That is not an euphemism. So until there are no more grains of sugar in it or until you feel like your hands are going to fall off. Whichever comes first. Was it the second? Not surprising at all.

Next, shape the meringues neatly from a piping bag on a tray covered with baking paper. But, since you've done this before and are expecting failure (so am I, by the way), you will just put them there with a spoon, misshapen and blobby. You think they will just fall flat, like before. Oh, the irony...

Anyway, in the oven they go. You did preheat it to 100 degrees, didn't you? Well, you were supposed to find out about it when you were reading ahead to find out the ingredients. Oh, you actually did that? Well, ok. I suppose that is one redeeming thing. But you're not out of the woods yet.

Bake them for about 1h 30min, until they're hard as chalk. And, knowing your skills, just as tasty. I will tell you to keep the door open and to bake them on a middle tray position. You will do the opposite, since you think you know better. Who's the recipe here, me or you? Stop improvising, these are meringues, not hot dogs. Though hot dogs sound nice. I'm getting kind of hungry here, waiting for your meringues to be done. Hey, can you make me some hot dogs? What do you mean, you don't have the recipe?

By the way, your meringues are getting burnt.

Here they are, in all their burnt missapen glory

Bitesize fiction. The man in the fridge 2.0

2024-05-07T22:52:00.000+03:00

Standing in front of my fridge, I hesitated. Why would one hesitate in front of one's own appliance? Simple. There was a man in my fridge.

I decided to knock.

The answer came promptly and cheerfully: "Who is it?"

"It's me."

"What's the password?"

I frowned. Password? "We never discussed about a password."

"That is correct! I was just testing to see if it really is you. An intruder would have tried to make up a password."

"Oh. That's very clever. Now that we've established that I am me, may I open the door? Are you... decent?"

"I may or may not be. Like Schrödinger's cat, I'm both until you open the door." His wink was almost audible through the fridge door.

I opened the door.

"Hello!" The smile next to the mustard was just as wide as ever.

"Hello. How are you today?"

"Oh, I can't complain. This is a nice place. The cheese is good."

"So you've told me, yes. Umm, can we talk?"

"Fire away. I've got nowhere else to be at this time."

"I've got something to confess."

"Oh?"

"You aren't a real human."

He raised an eyebrow. "I feel pretty real."

"You're not, I'm afraid. I wrote you into existence."

"Are you sure? When was this?"

"Last week."

"I see... Funny, I don't recall my birth."

"Most people don't. Do you have any memories from before that though?"

"Hmm... It's rather hazy. More like thought fragments than memories."

"I see. How... do you feel about it all?" I asked gently.

"Well... A tad confused, I must confess. I was sure I was real. Now, this might take some getting used to." He sat thinking for a few moments.

I waited patiently in silence for him to process it all.

He seemed to have reached a resolution, because his smile returned. He picked up the cheese platter and handed it to me.

I politely took a piece. "Thank you."

He nodded. "I've heard it's customary when dealing with one's creator to give them an offering."

"You don't have to. I won't rattle the fridge or storm it with locusts if you don't." I ate the cheese nonetheless. It was good cheese after all.

"I have a question for you as well, if I may."

"By all means."

"What's the purpose of my existence? Was I put on this Earth to guard your cheese? Is that my destiny?"

I looked down at my feet. "The truth is... I was just feeling inspired. You... just happened. I didn't intend any specific purpose for you."

"Is that why I feel restless?"

I looked back at him. "What do you mean?"

"I've always thought that life must be more than this. That the world must be bigger than this fridge."

"Oh..."

He became more enthusiastic as he spoke. "I can be more than just the man in the fridge. I feel that I can do more than just guard the cheese." He punctuated his sentence by taking a piece of cheese himself and eating it gleefully.

I watched in fascination.

"In fact, I feel that, even if you created me, I'm not inferior to you. I have my own mind, my own dreams. Wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, absolutely. I've never looked down on you, you know."

"I know." His smile softened. "I am very grateful for you having created me, but I must now be free. I will make my own destiny."

"I'm glad." I smiled and offered him my hand. "Come on, the first step is getting out of that fridge."

He looked at my hand, then at my face. His smile had faded. "It seems that I'm afraid."

I raised my eyebrows. "How come?"

"It's cosy in here. There's cheese... Out there, there are possibilities. Choices. What if I make the wrong ones?"

"We all make wrong choices." I beamed at him. "It's freedom. It's life."

"True... Very well, then." He took my hand and came out of the fridge. "It's warm out here," he observed.

"Indeed it is." I grabbed the cheese plate. "Let's have some cheese."

He closed the fridge door behind him and smiled his brightest smile yet. "Let's."

Bitesize fiction. The man in the fridge

2024-04-29T22:19:00.004+03:00

There is a man in my fridge. I found out just this morning, when I went to get some breakfast, opened the fridge door and there he was.

"Yes?" He glanced at me from next to the mustard.

"I... I'm sorry, should I have knocked?"

"No, that's quite alright. I'm decent."

"I see... But, may I ask, what are you doing here?"

"I guess you could say I'm just chilling," he winked.

I chuckled in return.

"You've got great taste in cheese." he commented politely.

"Oh, thank you! I do enjoy good cheese. Please, help yourself. It's right next to your elbow." It never hurts to be a good host.

"You are very kind. I shall a bit later. At the moment, I'm not hungry."

We sat for a little while in silence.

"Aren't you cold? Would you like a blanket? Or I could make you a spot of hot tea?" I offered.

"I'm fine, thank you! It is a bit nippy, but one gets used to it after a while."

"Do you plan on staying long?"

He looked hurt. "Are you suggesting I'm unwelcome?"

"No, not at all. But I rarely have house guests in my fridge. I'm afraid the accommodations aren't exactly comfortable."

"I do agree that you're rather low on cheese..."

I glared at him. "Well, Mr... Mr... I didn't catch your name."

"My name is not important."

"Then, how about why you're here?"

"Simple. You've got good cheese."

"That's no excuse for you to barge in my fridge uninvited like that."

"I do beg your pardon. When I arrived you were sleeping and I didn't want to impose."

"How considerate... So then, would you please come out of my fridge?"

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Oh, why not?"

"Who else will guard your cheese? If I leave, someone is bound to sneak inside your fridge and help themselves to your cheese!"

With that, he smiled merrily and pulled the fridge door shut.

Bitesize fiction. The apple thief

2024-04-12T13:01:00.000+03:00

The apple. Round, shiny, red with a hint of yellow and possibly quite delicious. No, definitely delicious, as most apples tend to be at this stage. And absolutely tempting, a pair of beady eyes eyeing it with hunger.

The eyes blink and the nose under them sniffs deeply at the air. As if to get a feel for its prey, which is sitting on the table, oblivious of the danger it's in.

A small hop, then others following in quick succession. Swift and nimble, the creature is on the hunt, though there is no obstacle, no competition, between it and its prize.

It reaches the table and hides beneath it, its heart beating loudly in its little chest. At last! The apple it's been dreaming of, defenceless, within reach, oh my!

Cautiously, the predator lifts its eyes over the table's edge. The apple is there, inviting and desireable. With trembling hands, the apple thief reaches out. And hesitates. Dare it take this holy grail of all fruits?

But perhaps the apple wants to be eaten. Why else would it sit there, forgotten on a table at the end of the world? The apple... has been waiting. Maybe for just this little creature to snatch it up and bite into its juicy core. So the little apple thief smiles. There is no need for an apology. With sure hands, it takes the apple and disappears into the mist.

And all that remains is an empty table at the end of the world.

Bitesize fiction. High tide

2023-10-26T00:02:00.001+03:00

The sea water was cool around my feet, but the air was pleasantly warm. I waddled around a bit in the shallow water of a narrow stretch of beach, flanked off by concrete walls. It felt like a beach within a room, cosy and private.

An empty table by the wall caught my eye. What use could a table be here, with its legs dipped in the water? To store the bathers' things?

"Vodka tonic!" a voice chimed behind me cheerfully.

I turned around. A young man was beaming at me from a group of equally young, equally enthusiastic people.

"Hello." I replied politely. It barely occured to me that his greeting had been unusual. This was an unusual place after all.

"Are you here for a swim? May we intrude?"

"Go right ahead. I don't mind company."

"Thank you!" He smiled widely. Quite a friendly fellow. He turned towards the sea and stared into the distance for a while. "I advise you to get to higher ground though. The high tide will be coming soon."

"Yes, you're right. I'd almost forgotten about that." I started towards the stairs that led to the top of the cliff, but stopped midstep and remarked: "It's a shame you and your friends arrived here right before the high tide. It will cut your swimming short."

"No worries. We meant to come at this time."

In fact, they were doing something even more unusual than the greeting from before. They were laying papers down on the table. I enquired: "Wait... Won't your papers get swept away by the sea? I don't think you should put them there."

He smiled widely once more. "That is also deliberate. You see, that is our homework."

"Oh?"

"We lost one of our teachers out at sea last year... He went swimming and was swept by the current and drowned." His smile softened and became sadder.

"I'm sorry to hear that..."

"Thank you. Well, he was such an amazing teacher, that our group has decided to pay homage to him every week by studying together and leaving our homework here to be taken by the sea..."

"Oh... Such a lovely tradition! I'm sure your teacher would have been proud of you. Erm, may I add to your offering? I have my notes from my language studies with me."

"Of course! Our teacher appreciated people who wanted to learn. Your notes are welcome."

So I put my papers on the table and we all went up the steps, out of the reach of the soaring waves.

And as we watched together our homework floating off the table, we all felt united by this small moment that we shared.

This story is an embrace between the sea and a dream at the edge of waking.

Broken pencil poetry. Van Gogh's ear

2023-10-03T23:10:00.000+03:00

Am I going to cheat by digging out an old piece of writing from the past? Yes, yes I am. But it hasn't been published here, so it's just like new.

Almost 7 years ago, I wrote a little poem. I'm not sure what triggered it at that time. But, after dusting it off and reading it again, it certainly feels very fitting to my current situation in life. So, here it is:

*************

Van Gogh's ear
21 nov 2016

I think the world is far too narrow
As I lay another brick -
I think the wall is far too tall
But I'm the one
Slathering the mortar.

I think the eyes are far too bright
Because they see me in my corner
And even if I bare my teeth
The world is still, still far too narrow.

My back is itchy and I'd really like to scratch
And the cards are still not good
For helping me out with my bluff...

I feel like Van Gogh's ear,
Cut off and given away,
But I can still hear, mind you,
I can still hear it!
The echo is still there
And I can hear it over and over,
Lost in the nooks and crannies
Of this discarded old ear...

*************

As a little interpretation hint, it's still a poem about building one's own enclosing fence, not feeling quite right in the middle of this reality and still being haunted by the past. Well... Some things simply never change.

A "why" on parenthood

2023-09-06T00:03:00.001+03:00

There is a subject that has preoccupied me quite frequently, due to it being so pervasive in our society. Children. More importantly, the motivation behind procreating.

I have many friends who already have school age children or newborn babies. They often talk about their children, whether prompted to by me or not. It's obvious the children are a big part of their lives, to the extent that their lives are divided between work and parenting. And sleep.

It's interesting though that most of the things they say about their children are what problems they cause or how much of their time they take up. When I ask if they regret the decision of procreating, most of them are quick to say no, then give me some of the happier stories. Some do have regrets though.

We all agree though that children are a great responsibility and require not only money, but a proper education (no, not just the academic one) and attention and affection.

So I would ask them, men and women alike, what motivated them to have babies. The answers vary and are often a mixture of multiple reasons. I've also noticed some of the reasons nobody boasts about, but which are still very obvious. Here they are, in no particular order:

Societal and familial norms and expectations. Even if we have more freedom to live our lives the way we want, society and our families still expect us to have one course in life: marry and have children.

The wishes of the spouse. Sometimes, the spouse wants a child and the person in question feels compelled to make that wish come true.

The idea that the achievements of the child will be considered as achievements of the parents. Some parents will also fulfil some of their own wishes through their children.

To have someone to leave their worldly possessions to after death. The "carry on the family legacy/name/business/genes" reason will also fit in here.

To have someone love them and also take care of them when they are ill and/or old.

As a toy or an excuse to go through childhood again with their child.

To have someone to own and control completely, at least for a while.

To have someone to love and care for, at least for a while.

For money. It happens in Romania at least, where some people have children just to get the child support money that the state gives to everyone monthly.

Because of no or bad contraception. It's not a motivation, but it is a cause of pregnancy.

There might well be more, but these are the ones I've seen most frequently. Some are a bit disturbing and often lead to unhappiness all around.

The core of the matter is that children are a huge responsibility and the decision shouldn't be taken lightly and definitely not for frivolous reasons.

Artificial intelligence

2023-09-04T19:07:00.000+03:00

I have often jokingly said that my mind is smarter than I am. That most of my intelligence is artificial.

Let me explain my claim to artificial intelligence.

The mind gathers information all the time, processes it and stores it, most of it without us making a manual effort towards these goals. The conscious mind is left to think, our train of thought following a path we are aware of. But all that information we don't even feel being stored away is still there and can come up, seemingly out of the blue.

I noticed this phenomenon in school a lot but also a recent event reminded me of it. I have been learning a foreign language. A lot of that learning involved simply listening to that language being spoken by natives on their local radio. I also did more formal learning, but I was still just emerging from the layer of utter beginner.

I once wanted to form a phrase in that language. Without even getting a chance to find my words, the phrase just appeared in my mind. It was a more peculiar construction too, using an unfamiliar grammar structure and a tricky word. I verified my sentence with a native speaker and it seems it was completely correct. Of course I was baffled. And a little proud too, although I can't take full credit, my unconscious mind did all the work. It referenced the information stored in my memory and was able to build something new that worked.

I'm pretty sure I haven't said anything new and everyone has experienced that. But to me, it's still utterly fascinating when it happens.

Broken pencil poetry. A piece of madness

2023-09-01T21:38:00.000+03:00

I've been exploring some dark artwork. I got inspired. This is a semi-poetry semi-prose piece. It's also a bit dark. I paint my dark artwork with words. And I just wrote whatever came. That is why it makes seemingly no sense and it seems broken.

*****

A piece of madness
01.09.2023

It's night time again and there's only a sliver of life coming in through the lowered blinds. My eyes hurt at how bright the darkness is and at how much I strain to see.
What am I looking at? What is that blackness painted over the far corner?
What is this silence, grated like cheese by the sound of the old fridge?
I blink.
It's dark under the staircase, the tendrils of darkness stretching like a spiderweb.
It's dark over the staircase, where I once stopped a... There is a dark memory looming over the staircase.
The darkness suddenly breaks like a murky mirror. Where is it? Who made that sound? Who broke the illusion?
.
.
.
I need to sleep. I need to sleep, so I can stop dreaming like this.

Broken pencil poetry. The wall

2023-08-19T23:06:00.006+03:00

The wall
19.08.2023

He was laying
Brick upon brick,
In smooth rows,
One on top of the other.
"What are you building?"
I asked him, intrigued.
"You'll see," he winked at me.
So I went away.

When I returned,
The bricks had formed
A wall.
Tall, wide,
And without doors or windows.
And on top,
There he was, still putting
Brick upon brick,
The sun shining behind him.
"Is it a wall?"
"Mm-hm."
"But why?"
But he gave no response,
Just winked again,
Playfully.
So I went away.

The next time,
The wall was as wide as the horizon
And as tall as the sun at noon,
But he was nowhere to be seen.
I knocked on a brick.
"Yeees?" came the answer.
"Whom are you keeping out?"
He laughed, then said
"Perhaps you might ask instead,
Whom am I keeping inside?"
He laughed again.
I couldn't see it,
But I'm fairly sure
He just winked at me again.

Bitesize fiction. The girl in black

2023-08-11T22:31:00.001+03:00

evxlutionrace · the girl in black

"Come back for me!" I heard her call as I was running away.

I didn't turn around. I knew she would be there, patiently waiting for me. But she could be my undoing. I had to get away!

The portal wasn't going to be open for much longer. I could see it in front of me, getting closer with each step I took, but still so far away. Would I make it in time? It was already starting to blur around the edges, rippling like the wavelets of a lake. Soon, it would close.

A quick, sharp jab and I was knocked off my feet and onto the ground. What?

"I said, come back for me!"

Her voice was shrill and inhuman. It couldn't be... Had she already been corrupted?

I lifted my eyes to look at her. She stood there, towering tall, taller than before and it seemed like she was elongating, up towards the sky. Oh no...

"Why did you run? Why did you leave me? Don't you know I need you?" she screamed like a banshee.

I got up quickly, glancing at the portal. It was already narrowing, like a pair of eyelids closing. My last chance was fading away. I had to run now, or else I'd miss it! My foot stepped towards it, but her yell cut across the air like a knife, halting me.

"Don't even think it! You belong here. With me!"

I breathed slowly and looked up at her. Into her eyes. The girl in black. With black, abyss eyes.

She looked back at me. No... She was looking through me. She was no longer capable of seeing anymore. She knew only rage and it was blinding her.

"Come here," I whispered to her softly.

She frowned.

"Come here and talk to me," I insisted. "Come into my arms."

I lifted both arms towards her. For a long moment, she didn't react in any way. Then I saw something break in her, a tension releasing. She crumpled to the ground.

I knelt beside her. She was small, smaller than before. She was shivering, but her black eyes now held a soul again. She looked at me through her tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "The thought of losing you made me lose my mind... I'm so sorry."

"I know. Don't worry. We all break sometimes." I closed my eyes and held her in my arms as she wept quietly. Her body convulsed with tears. We sat like that for a while, until the trembling stopped and the tears flowed no more.

She looked up at me.

"Thank you," she said simply. Then she looked around. "Oh... but the portal. It's gone."

"Yeah..."

She turned towards me again. "Look into my eyes."

I did. Her black eyes, dark as midnight on a cloudy sky. Their darkness seemed to glow and grow, expanding out of their rims.

"What is this?"

But she didn't reply. Those eyes were no longer eyes, they were a rippling dark pool, overflowing over her entire being. Soon, there was nothing left. Nothing left of the girl in black. Instead, there was a portal.

I screamed.

There was no answer, just the portal's surface, rippling from the edges towards the centre. She was gone. She had given herself away so I could escape.

So I could move on.

I caressed the pitch black surface gently and then I stepped through.

************************

PS: I have added the song that inspired this piece. I might do that again in the future, if it feels relevant.

Broken pencil poetry. Dear Suzie

2023-08-06T22:10:00.000+03:00

This will be a poem I wrote many years ago, in high school. I have recovered it while rummaging through my memories. It's a bit dark, be warned. Well, you know, metaphors...

Actually, I recall there was a second part to this. Some of my very old poems are still stuck on my old PC and laptop and I have yet to recover them...

*******

Dear Suzie,

How are you doing?
Me? I'm not so great,
mommy beat me up today.
But breakfast was good,
got a big plate of gravel
and downed it with some water.
I even asked for a second serving
and she gave me all the bowl,
so nice of her! I said thank-you
and left my teeth on my plate
to be given to the poor.

But the past weeks have been so bad!
They made me go out in the streets
and beg for love with a broken cup in hand.
Everyone kept passing by, not looking,
not turning round, not even once,
and one who did smile down at me
proved out to be a liar;
he broke my cup against the floor.

Next I went out by the corner,
auntie's fiddle in my hand
and I played till crack of day,
with a shard of the old cup beside me.
I was no longer begging,
but now trying to win their hearts
with music made by me and others alike,
with lively dancing tunes
and heart-breaking wails of the fiddle's strings.
I played and played until my ears turned deaf,
yet all I ever got from it
was a sideways scornful look
and them spitting in my cup,
old piece of an old useless cup.

I then turned to cold dark alleys
that hid inside them lonely strangers
with hollowed eyes and ragged clothes,
pale skin and alluring legs.
I went among them and they made me one of theirs,
taught me how to look for men
who took us with them and again I tried
to earn a piece of warmth from them,
but the coins they paid me were cold
so I took my broken cup and left.

I even covered my face with a cloth
and entered banks and markets
and menaced them with my broken cup
to give me their hidden loved possessions
and feelings money could still buy,
but they just laughed again
and let the men with sirens take me away,
clutching the same old cup in my shaking hand.

They took me to a dark place,
a room with walls of steel,
they gave me a name tag and told me to behave.
The ones around me simply stared,
too lost in their own sins to see my plead.
When in the end they did,
they simply forced themselves upon me
and I froze; their hearts were so cold...
I learnt from them, though, the art
of taking what I want by force,
but those I would abuse were silent,
like stones being kicked about,
they screamed, but not really quite.
I was released from prison and my evil,
I even hit one of my past aggressors
with the sharp shard in my hand,
the cup had already been marred.

You see now, dear Suzie, why I write you this...
I wonder if even you understand
what I want to tell you, my only confidante.
This morning was sunny, it was a perfect day,
I took a swig from daddy's rum
and took my eye out. You said it looked so nice
and that you liked what you saw in it.
After I finish this, I will hang myself
from the ceiling of my room.
That's why I won't be there giving you the eye
in a small green jar labelled "peas",
that will be my little dog on your threshold.
I'm not giving you the broken cup, though...
Because it's been so marred and dirtied
broken in so many places and I also fear
that you will add to the cracks
if I ever offered it to you.

Yours,
the boy with a broken cup.

Oppression

2023-08-02T01:35:00.000+03:00

I have been writing. I have been. Only I can't publish any of it, because the present is still here and hasn't yet gone to the past. And there are things too personal to talk about with anyone. I can't.

Sometimes music hurts me. Most of the time I waste time making time get stuck between running and staying. In my mind there is a perpetual twilight, filled with shadows of the past and of the future.

Why? It's a stupid selfish question, but it keeps running through my mind. Why is this happening to me? I used to have such beautiful dreams and hopes for my future. I've tried so hard to be the perfect person, to justify my claim for happiness.

But it keeps getting postponed. And the things that come instead are painful.

I guess maybe in the end I don't deserve to be selfish. Not even a little bit.

To whom it may not concern

2023-07-23T01:00:00.002+03:00

Look at this. This... this writer's block. This stupid idea that a blank page could ever be so scary.

Let me tell you what is really scary. Ca... yeah. Censorship. That is scary. Not as scary as the other thing, but my personal life is too personal for this public place, so we'll censor it. Just a bit.

Speaking of censorship, I've noticed something today. In fact, it's been staring me right in the face, but it's finally hit me. Like a wet trout that I've been slapped with over the face. Hmm.

I was posting something or other on a site or other. It's really irrelevant what or where. But on the site there my account is probably throwaway. So I just posted a couple of ramblings. Raw, biting and refreshingly inspired. Do you know why? Because I seriously didn't care who would read them and what they would think.

Gosh.

Isn't that a weird feeling? To create for myself, rather than for my audience?

Actually, not so much. I've been doing that on my Youtube channel, where I've been making videos as a hobby, just for myself. There are occasional people who watch my stuff. Some even like it. I do have to say it is amusing. Especially when I can see my stats and that nobody has ever watched more than 2 minutes of a nearly 2 hour long video. But they sure enjoyed those 2 minutes, man.

And years ago, this was my method of writing well... nearly anything. Even if some assignment or challenge came up, I would always complete it in my own way. And it would be a pretty cool result at times. In my opinion. And that's good enough for me.

Anyway. I'm divagating, but I won't be editing this beyond spell checking. And looking up divagating, to make sure it's semantically appropriate. I need an automatic spell checker.

See? This the epitomy of not giving too many rats' asses. Of writing for myself. Sorry, my dear audience of nearly 2 people.

PS Isn't this the stream of madness I thought I'd lost? So silly of me.

Broken pencil poetry. Running

2023-07-08T23:45:00.000+03:00

Running
8.7.23

Thump thump thump -
My feet hit the ground
As I run.

Thump thump thump -
My heart booms
In my chest.

I run and I sprint,
Stirring the dust behind me,
Gasping for air,
Feeling my lungs burning.
I'm running.

Faster and faster I go,
Leaving behind me
The world in a blur.
Where am I going?
Not even I know.
I just need to run,
To run away.

I'm melting
I'm stretching,
Just like a stick of gum,
So in a hurry am I
To get farther and farther.

The world too is running,
Running in reverse,
Going far behind me,
Out of breath too.

Am I far away enough?
Where am I?
I can't stop to look.
I just keep on going forward,
Gasping for air,
Both my feet hurting.

Just for a second
I dare to glance back.

Oh, no!
My heart sinks.

It's still there,
Following me.
It's still there,
Matching my pace,
My every move.
It's there,
I simply can't escape it.
My eternal stalker,
My most threatening nightmare...
My own shadow.

Engendered

2023-07-05T20:21:00.002+03:00

I was reading my older stories today. It feels at times that nothing has changed. I'm definitely still the same. Perhaps a little wiser, who knows? My workmate sure thinks I am.

Some stories I wrote years ago now hit very close to home. Some even more than they did when I wrote them. My mind was usually just producing them with no apparent connection to reality. Now they seem so real...

How does the past produce the present? What is the mechanism? Heck, all my wisdom and I can't figure it out.

Maybe I'll write some more things that aren't real. Maybe they just aren't real... yet.

Bitesize fiction. Outside

2023-07-03T20:04:00.001+03:00

I saw her today. She didn't recognise me, but I knew at once it was her. How could I ever forget her? We've spent so much time together, her presence is almost second-nature. I used to expect her to be there.
She didn't recognise me though. And if she did, there was nothing in her eyes to tell me she had. She looked through me, as if I weren't there. As if I were a stranger. I suppose I deserve that.
She used to sit by the window, looking out, lost in thought. She would lose track of time so much so, that she forgot that normal people aren't supposed to dream. Not like that anyway.
I looked at her looking out the window. She was too lost in thought to see me. I looked at her and knew exactly what she was thinking of. She was dreaming of a different world, one she wanted to fly to. A world I could never follow her into.
She shouldn't have dreamt of it. She shouldn't have wished it. And yet she did. Without ever saying a word of it. Yet her eyes spoke instead. Not to me, but to the world outside the window.
The window kept us safe. The outside was dangerous. Dreaming was dangerous. But she just didn't care.
One day, as she was staring outside as usual, she suddenly got up. She opened the window and jumped up on the ledge. I leaped after her, but she just turned at me and frowned. And in that look I could see all her anguish, all her sense of betrayal. So I had to let her go.
And she flew. She flew away to her world, outside of the window.
I still see her from time to time. Will she ever forgive me... for keeping her locked up?

Broken pencil poetry. Why

2023-07-01T16:06:00.000+03:00

I seem to take a lot of breaks from writing. But you know, life happens and you need to be there and live it with full attention. Now I am back and I'd like to write a little bit more here. Not necessarily for others, but for myself.

Once upon a time, when I was in high school, I was getting ready for the school olympics. One of the subjects I was going for was Romanian (my mother language) literature. We were supposed to do a literary analysis of a poem and explain the writer's intent and how they conveyed that through lyrical instruments: rhythm, similes, metaphors and so on. I ended up reading a lot of poetry during those days. The more cryptic and interesting, the better.

I would also write my own poetry. Most of my high school poems are bound in my little self-published book. Anyway...

I was getting ready for the olympics and I was waiting for my teacher to come up to the classroom, but she was running late. The room being on the 3rd floor with no elevator didn't help matters any either.

So I composed a poem in my head while I was waiting for her. It was all in Romanian and it had perfect rhythm and rhyme. The funny thing is that I never write that way. I only write in English and always in free verse. But this one was different.

The poem was about a soldier and how he went to war and his fight for a good cause. It was a great poem. It was a perfect poem. And it flowed with ease, as if I were reading it, instead of making it up on the spot. I didn't write it down, because I knew that as soon as I would put pen to paper, the flow of ideas would break. So I just wrote it in my mind, where it still dwells, faded to the point of being only a memory.

Now, years later, I have been inspired once again to write about war. But a more dark look on it. A friend once asked my opinion on the current events in Ukraine. I said it was all a terrible waste of human lives. I still see it that way. So here it is, a little poem about the question that can never be properly answered.

Why
29th of June 2023

The mud is slippery under their boots
And the air smells of gun powder.
There are gun shots from all around,
With artillery puncturing the din
Like bolts of thunder.

Now and then, a sharp yell of pain can be heard.
Other times, the men fall instantly, quietly,
Like wheat cut by a sickle.
The wheat that used to grow on this very field
Before it turned into a bloody tableau.

What drove these men to fight?
What compelled them to kill?
What sent them to be sacrificed?
For even if they survive the war,
Inside them something will have died.

They may never stop to think
Whom it is they are killing,
What that person's name is,
Who loves them and what makes them smile.
The people they are shooting
Are now nothing more than stalks of wheat.
History will come later
To dig graves and build memorials.

History will come later
To try to explain why.
But no explanation could ever justify
This hell on earth.

We're all mad here!

2022-12-26T19:52:00.003+02:00

I entered the small office and, even though I tried to keep my gaze steady on the doctor's face, I couldn't help but glance around the room. Was this really a psychiatrist's office?

The wall right in front of me was covered to the top in shelves and on the shelves sat dolls. Dozens of dolls, each probably collector's items, but dolls nonetheless. I was less concerned with their quality than I was with their very presence there.The dolls sat quietly and motionlessly, their eyes affixed frontward, as if staring at anyone coming through the doorway. Some people are afraid of clowns. Some people might find dolls particularly creepy. And let's not forget, this was the office of a doctor in a mental care hospital.

Sitting at the desk right in front of the door was another doll. This one was flesh and blood, objectively a really beautiful young lady. Her attitude though was cold and curt, with a hint of arrogance. Quite a doll indeed.

And the apparent owner of all these dolls was a stocky middle-aged woman, looking quite bohemian herself. She was soft spoken and well mannered, but the air about her was off. As if she was playing a role in a strange little play.

While we were talking, she had a lit scented candle on her desk, which she would pick up, move around, then occasionally dip her fingers inside. She didn't seem to mind the flame. She questioned me with the curiosity of an aquaintence listening to slightly scandalous gossip. I was not her patient, but she treated me as if I'd been.

I studied her in turn, just as intently as she was studying me. She knew I'd seen the dolls and the assistant. She knew I was looking at her twirling her fingers over the lit flame.

I wondered if she was aware of my questioning in my mind her sanity and her fitness as a psychologist. I wonder what her assistant thought. I could only imagine what her patients must have thought.

While I was going out the door, a little saying kept running through my mind... The blind leading the blind.

Happy birthday, Romania!

2022-12-01T19:43:00.005+02:00

Today is the 1st of December, Romania's national day, the day when in 1918 several territories, among which Transilvania, were united with the rest of Romania. We've lost a few bits here and there along the way, but nonetheless, it's still a great little country. Happy birthday, Romania!

There were several military parades and festivities in honour of this day. I watxhed the main parade on TV, since I wanted to see things up close and also the commentary was interesting. There was supposed to be an air show too, but the weather was too bad for low flights. Next time I'd like to be there in person too.

I have a lot of respect for our army and the similar and complementary services. I admire their discipline and dedication to our country and our allies. So I watched the parade with a lot of interest.

Later in the day, I decided to paint on my last piece of brown cardboard a painting inspired by today. I thus took a still image of the parade video as reference and began the arduous sketch. Then I painted it in watercolour. The same set like the one I used to have as a child.

Mom thought it was good, but asked me why I hadn't chosen a "nicer" subject, such as our own replica of the Arc de triomphe, which was the site of the parade. I had instead chosen to paint a Romanian tank, a TR-85 M1 Bizon. With the Romanian flag on it and a member of the military sitting in the turret saluting. My little homage to the people who helped make the union a reality.

Watercolour on brown cardboard. How bad could it be?

2022-11-26T19:07:00.003+02:00

Once more, I find myself coming back here after a pretty long break. It is true that I have posted a couple of poems, but not much else. Life has been hectic. Life has been cruel. And I was the one who caused it all.

But I am not here to talk about that, even if I keep saying my memoirs would definitely go under fiction if I ever wanted to write them down and publish them. But since so much of my life is quite personal and I enjoy my privacy, I will probably not write my memoirs after all. It might be for the better.

No, what I am here to write about is another of my artistic endeavours, a relatively new hobby I picked up in the recent year. Watercolour painting. I guess it got triggered by my mom starting to paint herself, but with acrylic paints.

I had bought a tiny box of watercolours that is the same as I used to have as a child. Probably cheap, low grade paints, but I don't care. I'm only doing this for fun, just playing with it.

I started watching tutorials on Youtube, like I often do when I want to learn a new skill. There are many good resources out there. After a lot of such tutorials, I finally decided to give it a try. I had attempted some paintings before, but I wasn't happy with them.

So, I thought I'd make a few small practise pieces. I didn't have proper watercolour paper, so I cut up a small cardboard box and painted on the pieces. Brown cardboard, roughly 10*10cm. Was it a good idea? Probably not for watercolour.

My first attempt was a mutant flower in a blurry field under an overcast sky. I thought it was a bit childish, but my mom liked it and put it in her kitchen on a shelf.

This week, I was at her place and she was doing her painting and I thought I'd practise too, on a new piece of cardboard. I chose a nice landscape, made the sketch and painted it, all in a couple of hours. I had to use white for the sun, since the white of the paper I was supposed to have used was in fact brown cardboard. I also painted over my sketch and got distracted, so I made a couple of perspective errors. The sun rays are not coming from the sun and the bridge's reflection is a bit too low.

But anyway, mom liked this one too. And I must say I'm also proud of it. I guess I'll remake it on bigger proper paper and next time I'll actually avoid the errors I made on this one.

Let me know what you think as well. I don't mind criticism either, I do prefer honesty to flattery.

Broken pencil poetry. Broken?

2022-10-23T19:46:00.003+03:00

Broken?
18th of July 2022

Its back is bent,
Its shoulders are hunched
And its head is bowed down -
Is it tired, defeated,
... Broken?
Sitting at the table,
It is maybe a little bit of all.
But more than that,
It is hunched over in concentration,
Its fingers careful and deft,
Working without hesitation.

The last rays of the setting sun
Glimmer off its metallic skin,
Shine into its optic sensor eyes
And warm its cold brow.
Yet it sees and feels none of it,
Applying itself to its task,
Tinkering away
At the small device in its hands.

If you saw it, perhaps you'd understand.
The robot with the metal flesh
And artificial brain
Is sitting hunched over the workbench,
An empty cavity gaping in its chest -
It's working tirelessly
At fixing its own heart.

Broken pencil poetry. Agoraphobia

2022-10-23T19:36:00.001+03:00

Agoraphobia
5.5.22

Like from dry ice
Your soul suffuses from your body
And leaves its carcass behind.
Where to?
Now that you're free,
What will you do?
Kick that ankle chain away,
Don't even think
To put it back on!

Try as you might,
Your sky is still blue,
Your eyes are still hollow
And your mouth is still shut.

Those giant arms holding your body
Have released you.
Swim, little puppy!
Else you will drown
In this empty endless blue sky.

Bitesize fiction. A nightmare - part 2

2022-02-21T21:49:00.000+02:00

Who are you? Are you really here to save me? I know I can't say this out loud, but I am yelling it in my head.

You take me by the hand and help me to my feet. Your face is obscured, but your eyes have an earnest look in them.

You motion me to stay low and lead me running down a paved street, flanked by austere concrete buildings. My heart is thumping. We are out in the open, what if someone shoots us?

Soon enough though, we duck inside a building and you close the heavy metal door behind us. We stop for a beat to catch our breath.

I raise my eyebrows questioningly. I still don't dare say anything.

"It is ok," you whisper. "This is a safe place. We won't be shot in here. This place is empty, abandoned by the family that once lived here. They have long run away over the border."

"Where are we? Why are we in the middle of the fight? Who are you? What happened to the people who kidnapped me? Wha-" You motion me to stop. I cease my torrent of questions.

"Don't talk please, just listen. We don't have that much time." Your eyes are pleading, so I keep silent.

"Thank you. I need to tell you, I need to show you... come with me!"

You take my hand again and we climb up a flight of stairs and go up to a window. You keep me out of sight and we peer together from behind the dusty curtains.

You whisper on "Look, those over there are the rebel fighters, who have risen against the dictatorship in this country. Those over there are the army... Some of them actually feel doubt in their hearts about the cause of the regime, but they buried it deep and replaced it with blind obedience. It is easier not to think." You frown. "So many people die when enough people are mindlessly following orders... Just following orders."

You grunt for a second and then turn your gaze back to the rebels.

"There is their leader. He used to be in the army too, until he deserted and formed this opposition. His military knowledge has helped the rebels get this far and survive for this long. His ideals may be fair, but most of his life has been a fight. Now violence is his only reality. Is he maybe no better than those mindless soldiers?"

You pause and look at me. Your eyes are sad, but I don't dare interrupt.

You turn back towards the window. The dust and rubble rises in clouds with each shell exploding. When it settles, it all looks slightly different. Just like a slideshow...

"Most of the rebels are just normal people, farmers, clerks, people just making a living. Most have families, children. They sent them away to safety and they stayed behind. To fight for their freedom from oppression. The hope to see their loved ones is what keeps them going day by day... Pay close attention now! This is the final battle... The army will destroy the rebel base and their armory and try to hunt down the freedom fighters."

I get a knot in my throat. Why tell me about these people, who are just going to fail? To fail and to die?! You turn to me and your eyes smile sadly.

"War is no joke," you say. "People forget how to be human, they forget the others are human too. If they remembered, they would not fight... Innocent lives would not be severed." You frown in silence for a moment. "But there is a silver lining. The rebels have called for outside assistance from a sympathising country. Their cause will win, after all. The war will go out, just as a forest fire eventually goes out. Leaving behind destruction and death."

I should be relieved, right? But why is there still a sense of despair in me?

"You need to understand. Even if people try to keep living their lives in a battle zone, when the fighting happens, time stands still. No progress is made, evcept towards the fight. Resources and lives are lost. The soldiers fighting in the war go in it innocent, like children. Then they are forced to grow up. Yet their own normality is set aside, stuck in the paused time bubble. And then, at the end, when it is all over, it needs to struggle to catch up. Some never become human again. Some, although losing their limbs, regain their sanity."

I suddenly feel sick and close my eyes, trying to drown out the images still burned on my rhetina. You squeeze my hand and I open my eyes. You say nothing more, just point outside.

Time has skipped forward, it seems. The fighting has subsided, there are no more explosions, no more gunshots. It is eerily quiet. The rebel leader is limping badly, supported by a comrade. One of his legs is severed, from the looks of it by an explosion. He is going forward to meet his allies, thanks to whom he has won the fight.

"I know I said this man's only reality has been only fighting, but I think there is hope that he has regained his humanity."

I look at his face. He is smiling a sunny smile, like a child.

"There will be time to mourn the dead and rebuild their lives later. But right now, they can be happy. They are free!"

And with those last words, your eyes smile and you let go of my hand, which has been gripping yours for dear life until now. Your hand, your smile, the window, the curtains, it all collapses together into a flurry of pages, as the book I have been reading falls to the floor.

But I can't pick it back up. Not yet. It just... still hurts.