About cowards, mediocrity and shaded people

I've always been attracted by the quiet and shaded people. 

The kind of people that don't speak much when they're in a big group.

The expressive kind.

The kind that make you say to yourself: what's up with him/her? 

The troubled kind.

I guess they have the best stories to tell. I guess it is those stories that make them go quiet. Like they've seen enough from this world to want more. They just wait for the end of it.

You can see it in thier eyes, they suffer and they hide it. But they don't do it very well. Because there's something in the way. It's their own soul, that wants to breathe out through them. Like if they don't let it out from time to time they risk to implode.

I admire them, I want to stay close to them and I want to become one of them.

But I don't.

Because there's something in the way.  

It's my fear.

It's the fear.

I feel like if I become one of them, I wouldn't be able to go back. And I've never been too good at controlling my emotions, unless I make a big effort. Bigger than most people, but I still do it and it counts because if I were to say "fuck off" or "I love you" every single time I felt I should my world would have desintegrated. I'd be ashamed of myself for being so honest.

I know I'd be self distructive if I were to let out that side of me that knows how to write, that knows how to sing, that knows how to express pain and happiness and loathe and sickness of this entire collection of blind heartless people our society has created. I know I wouldn't be able to take it.

I may seem like I'm making a big deal out of it, but I'd rather be ridiculously right than deadly wrong. It's the fear again, and she's my best friend.

I don't even have to wonder why things are like this, because it's simple. I'm not the only coward. There's lots of them. And they all come together as big groups of cowards that do the same cowardly things: go to the same highschool, do the same jobs and hang out in the same bars.

I'm a fucking coward and I love it.

However, I still have this attraction to the dark, to the artistic, to the insane.  And it's morbid and it will probably consume me if it gets me.

I guess it will not, thanks to my dear cowards.

And thanks to the shiny, happy and kind cowards that are attracted to me. They are dear to me, but they bore me to... was about to say death, but I'm not dead yet. 

So, in order to close this outburst of sincerity that is making me write exactly what I think, I just want to glorify my cowardness by saying: even if I make it, even if I let all the talent in me touch the world, I'm sure I'd still be mediocre to myself and most people.

Here's to the safety of mediocrity! I love it!

tu me plais, să mor dacă te mint

îmi place de tine.

nu mă faci să te visez în fiecare noapte, nu mă zgudui cu iluzii care mai de care, nu îmi dai lumea peste cap.

n-ai nici cea mai mică intenţie să mă ameţeşti, să mă zăpăceşti, să-mi dai frisoane.

nu îmi aleargă inima pe câmpii de tâmpită când te văd. nici nu arăţi a cine ştie ce. ce-i drept, îţi stă bine cu cămaşa aia bleu.

nici măcar nu ştiu ce culoare au ochii tăi, tu realizezi? cred că-s albaştri, că poate aşa se explică treaba cu cămaşa bleu.

ah, şi n-ai păreri care mai de care, nu exagerezi, nici nu faci excese. nici prea relaxat nu eşti.

şi totuşi îmi placi.

ai un zâmbet tâmp care îmi aduce aminte de unul din şoriceii din Cenuşereasa. Cred că ăla gras, deşi tu nu eşti gras. Gus Gus. ce mai comedie.

şi-ţi place brânza împuţită şi vorbeşti cu accent franţuz, ce nebunie.

cred că ştiu de ce îmi place de tine.

ai nişte steluţe în ochii de culoare neidentificată de fiecare dată când mă priveşti. şi se asortează de toată frumuseţea cu zâmbetul de Gus Gus.

şi steluţele din ochii tăi aprind steluţele din ochii mei şi zâmbetul tău tâmp trezeşte un zâmbet absolut ridicol pe faţa mea.

hai să bem vin, să mâncăm brânză împuţită şi să parlons nous d'amour, cheri.

să mor dacă te mint.

despre azi

beau vin
c-un vecin
ascult jazz
ce mai haz

cam atât.
a se nota că am diacritice.
şi nu mai ştiu a scrie cu literă mare la început de frază.

anarhie
şi beţie.

Entitled to Sadness

I'm going to continue writing in English for a while.
I'm using whatever laptop/PC that I can find to sometimes update my blog.
That's right, I do not own one anymore.
I actually don't have a lot of stuff these days.
I only have 4 pairs of shoes: one for cold weather, one pair of sandals, one pair of flip-flops and one pair of trainers.
I can pack all my clothes in a normal suitcase.
I do not have an extra blanket. I actually do not have A blanket.
How did I get here?
Easy. I packed the most important things I had and I moved to the other side of Europe, in sunny Barcelona.
And I am loving it.
As much as I cut down on stuff, I started growing on the inside. I started seeing myself from afar, getting to know myself better. All this while exploring a much sweeter, easier and more intense way of living.
I have moved to Barcelona, Spain in May and it's the best decision I have ever taken.
But all about my adventures in Barcelona some other time, in another place.
There's some thing I have to tell you about me. I rarely write when I am crazy happy. Why? Because when I am happy I feel there's no way I can sit and think about what I am feeling. I don't want to analyse it, I just want to feel what I feel and if there's anyone I want to share it with I run to them.
I also avoid writing when I am sad, as my blog then tends to be a collection of sad moments which does not represent me at all. If you meet me at any point during the day, there's a 95% chance I am smiling, laughing, about to tell you a very bad joke or waiting for you to tell me one. My grandmother, bless her, she always says to me: "My darling, you are made of laughter."
And she is so right.
So my point is I generally write here when I feel most in equilibrium.
Today is one of the days when I am a bit sad.

I have never met Andra.
But I've been praying for her since May in (almost) every night.
And today I found out Andra has left this world for almost two months.
I feel sad like I have lost a friend.
And yet I lost friends over time and I never felt quite as bad.

I will go to bed now.
But before doing that, for a very long time starting today, I shall pray for Andra's mother.

Thanks Boschi for the idea.

The story of Min and how I learned to stop shouting - part II

The word was MUSIC.
Music. Music.
Music, where did I hear about that, asked Min himself. I´m sure I heard it somewhere.
A strange thought started to haunt him.
Was it a dream?
He started searching his memory, digging into each dream he ever had. What was MUSIC? Where did he hear about it? Why does it sound so familiar?
He went home, tired and excited at the same time. A headache was pulsating on his temple as he went to bed without eating. He wanted to sleep. He had to sleep in order to dream.
And he did dream.
He dreamt about a girl, so happy and so full of dreams that she could have made Silencia look like the saddest place on Earth compared to the wonderful world she´d create even with a word or a gesture.
She was not beautiful, but to his eyes.
She was not sweet, but to his taste.
She was not real, but to his hands.
She was not alive, but to his mind.
And so he woke up feeling the touch of her deep inside of him and he knew he´ll never be the same. He knew he will not stop looking for her in the real world, as long as she was alive in his dream world.
He immediately packed his things and started planning his trip around the world to find her. He knew she was not living in Silcencia. He knew she must be somewhere else.

His parents were concerned, but they let him decide what was best for himself.
And for the first time in his life, Min had a purpose. A purpose so clear, so palpable, so strong it made his eyes water with tears of joy. He felt happier than ever.

He left in a week´s time. He decided to first try going to the East, since that was the world least explored in the books he read.
And to his mind it made perfect sense that his best chances of finding Music were there.
As he was crossing the border he made a decision. As soon as finds Music, he will...

Dor de Vamă (Pentru Luci)

Ascult Vama Veche cu foame, cu dor, ca o nebună. Ca un surd ce şi-a imaginat timp de secole că poate să audă şi, nebun de dorinţă, într-o zi a reuşit printr-o operaţie dureroasă şi costisitoare.

Mă străduiesc să mă teleportez. Închid ochii şi simt mirosul de alge, de mâl şi pietre, de piele sărată şi nisip. Văd malul plin de corturi colorate, un curcubeu răsarind din marea murdară sub faleza pe care stau cocoţate cluburi, restaurante, cherhanale, adevărate locuri de veghe pentru beţivi fericiţi. Aud zgomotul valurilor, glasuri de toate felurile, Muddy Waters zbiară de la Stuff, un chitarist zdrăngăne undeva mai sus pe plajă.

M-am îndrăgostit de Vamă pe vremea când era jegoasă, gălăgioasă şi colorată. Poate şi acum e aşa. Nu am de unde să ştiu, nu am ochii altcuiva să o pot admira altfel.

Pentru mine este cel mai liniştitor loc de pe pământ.

Şi realizez că nu este aşa, deci iată dilema. De ce mă face acest loc să mă simt atât de bine?

Poate pentru că a fost şi poate încă mai este într-o oarecare măsură simbolul libertăţii.

Poate pentru că o doare în paişpe de cum arăt, cum mă îmbrac şi câţi bani am în cont. Şi deşi nu îi pasă de toate lucrurile astea, este foarte atentă la cum mă comport. Nu poţi să fii cocalar în Vamă şi să te simţi în largul tău. Cred. N-am de unde să ştiu, n-am fost niciodată cocalar.

Poate pentru miile de amintiri frumoase pe care le am legate de oamenii pe care i-am cunoscut acolo pentru prima dată.

Poate pentru miile de amintiri frumoase pe care le am legate de oamenii pe care îi ştiam deja şi pe care am ajuns să îi cunosc mai bine după ce ne-am întâlnit în Vamă.

Poate pentru dimineţile când tot ce-ţi doreai era să ieşi dracului cât mai repede din cort, mama ce căldură, uff ce frige nisipu’!

Poate pentru soarele ce mă mângâia în fiecare zi în timp ce adormeam pe pled sau mă ascundeam sub umbrelă să citesc. Pentru valurile imense, pentru algele ce ţi se prindeau în păr ca şi ghirlandele, pentru planurile care ne ieşeau din prima pentru că nu ni le făceam cu mai devereme de 1 minut. Pentru jocurile de cărţi, Trombonu’ cel de toate zilele, pateul vegetal sau sniţelele pregătite de tanti Clara miam-miam ce bun.

Poate pentru serile de festival, artişti care ne cântau din inimă, pentru berea la pet şi luna răsărită la est de doi rockeri care se pişă liniştiţi în mare.

Poate pentru nopţile la Stuff sau mai ştiu eu ce dugheană cu iz puternic de bere aflată la o scurtă furtună distanţă de a dispărea, dar cu muzică bună şi oameni cu chef de dans şi voie bună.

Poate pentru miezurile de noapte când te arunci în mare dezbrăcat şi sigur apare un bou de prieten cu o cameră şi hop, uite-aşa rămâi imortalizat într-o postură umilitoare.. Când ieşi cu dinţii clănţănind şi boul nu vrea să îţi dea prosopul. Io ştiu, că io eram boul de prieten.

Poate pentru răsăritul pe care în vezi cu capul greu şi ochii împăienjeniţi de la alcool şi dulcea oboseală ce marea ţi-o strecoară cu picurişul în corp.

Poate pentru pufuleţi, pentru drumurile până la magazin hai că vin eu cu tine, iei tu pâine şi iau eu bere. Poate pentru hahaha Roman ce mutră ai, dă-te mai încolo că n-am loc să mă pun la soare, cum adică n-ai loc de mine nu vezi ce mică sunt, hahaha să mori tu Roman că eşti mică. Poate pentru Baniciu şi Andrieş şi Alifantis şi toată gloata de artişti care cântă pentru toţi, inclusiv pentru punkiştii ce dorm lângă un pom claie peste grămadă. Poate pentru nisipul din păr şi dezordinea din cort şi pedepsele idioate cu şerveţele în urechi. Ce umilinţă, să-ţi iei un papuc în faţă. Sau să-ţi placă unu’ şi să scoată carnetul de elev la control la bilete.

Poate pentru te simţi vlăguit, obosit, adormit.

Dar atât de fericit.

My thoughts on body shaming

I used get a lot of body shaming from my mom.

GOD. IT'S SO GOOD TO LET THAT OUT.

Okay, I'll focus now.

But really, I used to get a lot of body shaming from my mom. From my family. School mates. But mostly mom. And she'd never talk to me, trying to convince me losing weight would be good for my health. Nope, she'd just make fun of me, and it was SO BAD that I would literally hate myself.

Now I look at old photos of myself and be like... Hey, dude, is that me? I was smokin' hot!

I'm not kidding, I was smokin' hot.
I mean... I am fat now, but I was smokin' hot back then.

But all that made me think. There's a really good chance I will be looking at pictures of myself in 20 year from now and think I was a hot piece of sh*t!

So, this goes out to the future me: you are really hot. 

And to the old me: you were a dumass. You REALLY WERE. SMOKIN' HOT. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

I realized this body-shaming thing is a real problem and it changes the way I used to see myself. 

I'm not blaming my mom for it. That skinny bitch!

Okay, I'm blaming my mom for it just a little bit. But you know why? Because she never really sat me down and told me about the importance of being fit and healthy. She would always pick on me, give me examples of other girls that used to have flat tummies while making me feel bad about the way I looked in a bathing suit.

Well you know what? Today I flashed my jelly in front of people. PEOPLE I DO NOT KNOW.

So there you have it. I'm chunky and I know it. And I ain't afraid to show it. 

The subtitle to that is the fact that I, for the first time, undressed and got dressed, panties and everything, at THE GYM LOCKER ROOM. I did that shit after 3 months of hiding and dressing in a little toilet room where I had to sit on the toilet just to get my socks on.

I'm not saying I'm delusional, that I look absolutely flawless and I should pose in mf Vogue. No. I'm saying that I'm aware I'm not in shape, but I work it out and I care about other stuff more. Like culture. And kindness. And having real hobbies that don't involve heavy drinking. Okay, scratch that one out *stupid drunk grin*

PS - Today I made salad and I screwed it up! One might ask how can that be possible.
Well, it just happened. And you know what? I'm happy I screwed up! Know why? Because now I know you should peel the potatoes before you slow-cook them, ya-ha!

Peace out everyone. You freaks on the internet with nothing better to do than read my nonsense. You guys are wonderful, I love you.

Okay, I'll stop.

Woohoo.

There's a part of me that doesn't want me to speak to anybody.
There's a part of me that doesn't want to speak to you in special.
There's a part of me that really really wants to hear your voice.
And there's a part of me that really craves for pizza.
I don't know why, it's just how my mind works.
All in all, today was a pretty fucked up day.
I guess any day you get to see that ex you hate and wish you could stab with a rusty knife enter your local store with his new girlfriend can qualify as a pretty fucked up day. You should just take a break from life and start over.
Kidding about the rusty knife part.
Actually, I'm not.
But at least I'm embracing my inner rage. I'm not in denial anymore. Woohoo.

So yeah, this is basically me not falling asleep and begging that a little bit of writing will do me good.
Cause if this doesn't work, I'm going to just text you that I miss you, OK? Please just text me back you miss me too and we'll just call it a day.

Hey, this writing thing does help! Woohoo.

Actually, the reason why I'm writing is because I'm out of wine. Writing seemed like the next best thing after getting slightly drunk and going to bed. Another thing I am not in denial anymore. I am an adult that drinks in average one bottle of wine per day. No, I am not an alcoholic. I just happen to like wine. And get dangerously dehydrated over the day. Give me a break. Thanks.

I've been replaying this entire day in my head and also realized I feel guilty for putting my trash bag in another trash can than the one assigned to my building. Bad Alexandra.
One of the neighbors called me bitch because of that. I just smiled and said "OK" like it was the most natural thing in the world. Guess another thing I feel now comfortable with is being called bitch and not giving a fuck. Woohoohoo.

So I guess this post doesn't make any sense. Well, not to you, my virtual amigo that got lost on the internet. I guess you are wondering how the hell you got here and what in the name of Bananahammock did you just read.

Hey, don't be too hard on yourself. Unless you're a bad person. Then you should definitely be hard to yourself.
Man, I'm not making any sense!
OK, I'll stop.