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The Cranberries - Dreaming my dreams

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câteodată zilele trec fără să le simțim gustul. și minutele de întârziere ale tramvaiului se cristalizează într-o stare de dulce amorțire a tuturor simțurilor, când te trezești că te uiți fix într-un punct și realizezi că gândurile te-au purtat aiurea.
zi de zi mii de vise se sinucid, aruncându-se din tramvaie aglomerate și murdare, se întind pe șinele de metrou așteptând să fie spulberate, bucăți mai mari sau mai mici se infiltrează în pământ, se evaporă, se lasă purtate de vânt, se impregnează în oameni. oameni, oameni mulți, preocupați de griji, care privesc în gol și pășesc prin peroane fără să fie atenți la ce se întâmplă în jurul lor... și veșnicul, eternul drum, murdar, emanând fel de fel de mirosuri, nuanțând mii de variante de gri, mii de feluri de praf și băltoace mizerabile. pe drumul ăsta ne purtăm pașii, visele, mințile, grijile, inimile. din când în când ele se întâlnesc și așa apar zâmbetele, strângerile de mâini, privirile furișe, tresăririle, mângâierile și tachinările care dau savoare zilelor și parfum nopților.
inimile sunt nesăbuite, zâmbetele, trecătoare și oamenii sunt niște uituci. niște uituci dragi, dar tot niște uituci. și-și lasă urmele să se risipească printre mașinile aglomerate din trafic, le uită în fiecare cartelă de metrou și mall.
și fără să știi, fără să mai simți, fără să lași nopțile să cadă peste sufletul tău, visul tău cel drag te părăsește și-și alege calea cea mai simplă să moară. ar fi o idee bună dacă am avea un centru pentru reciclarea viselor...
adevărul e că de ceva vreme zilele mele nu mai au gust, dar mi-am lipit visele cu poxipol de mine, le-am legat bine bine bine de tot, sperând să pot înființa primul centru de reciclare a viselor înainte să încep să amorțesc în stația lui 40.

photosource: weheartit.

*over-exposed and under-appreciated*

A sad thing is sad, a sad fact is reality. And the reality is that the rainbow girl has lost her colours to a dream. In fact, I think we should call her now rain girl, as I find it more suitable with her moist and self-pitty attitude.
And even though we should not worry, as there are still friends and chocolate on this world, I fear the weeks to come.
It's not the fact that she is frail, it's the fact that I don't know what to do to cheer her spirit. And even if I could do with the rain, I hate having it all over my kitchen and bathroom floor, or even in my soup, while I eat. As all she does at some times is stare into a fix point, with rain all over her face, pouring salty tears on her cheeks.
As I said, a sad thing is sad, but a sad fact is reality. And the reality is that she is so tired of being me.

My life consists of fast turning pages

Yesterday I bought 5 beautiful books, each speacial to my beautiful and strange collection. For I fear that no one has ever tried to mix bed time stories with Tolstoi and Goethe.
"Basmele românilor"
"Visul unei nopţi de vară", William Shakespeare
"Crocodilul din hamac", Gerda Anger-Schmidt, Winfried Opgenoorth
"The Shining", Stephen King
"Drept de viaţă şi de moarte", Amelie Nothomb
As a child, I got nightmares from Stephen King's "Misery" and "Carrie", for which I never tried it again.
As a mature person, I find Amelie's books a feast for the mind and spirit.
Currenly reading:
"Partida de biliard de la 9 si jumatate", Heinrich Boll
"Little Women", Louisa May Alcott

Ush, if I could just turn this last page and go to sleep...

fighting with myself

She cheated on him. He hit her. I hate them both for what they represent, but I love them for what they are, as they are dear to me. I cannot stare them in the eyes, for I feel that I am the one to blame. I do not agree with her, but I would never turn my back to a friend that needs me. And I could never hurt her, as she is a very important piece of my soul. But his suffering disturbes me, it trembles my heart and makes my mind twist, as her betrayal is more than he can endure... too much to bear and keep within yourself. Though it is hard not to judge her, hitting her would mean much more pain for him than for her. As every hit falling on her, all of her small bruises, her wounds, are marks on his soul. I remember when I was a girl, I remember I would fight my little sister. I would feel like every tiny punch that hit her soft white skin was a wound on me. I felt my heart pounding, not just with rage, but trying to escape my hurtful chest, while my lungs were so close to explode I could hardly breathe. Every breath I took was as if the air was ash.
I remember that after the moment faded away and the fight had stopped, I would reach my hand to my heart to make sure it was still alive. And it was. It was desperately beating inside of me, probably afraid of my insatiable fury against me.
I wish she knew this. I wish she knew I regret all of our foolish fights, from then and now. I wish I had told her that I felt so furious of myself back then, that I was nothing more than a child, a child driven by the guilt and fear that she will resent me. Somehow she forgave me. But I will never think proudly of myself for being that sister. And that's why I lost back then, and that's why I lose today.