Packing myself

As I pack my bag for the first time this year, I realize how many things I leave behind.
There's costumes of an Indian princess, a Bavarian girl living in the mountains, a 60s gal, there's cards, notes and old remains of the games we used to play, all the books I've read, all the books I wanted to read, photos, weird souvenirs and gifts, shoeboxes of my old diaries, theatre and concert tickets, old gadgets I really should throw away, guitars and so many bags I could fit all my stuff in them.
Back then, I would go to a costume party and dress up in the bathroom of Springtime because I'd be running from work to school and then to an unhealthy dinner with a friend.
Back then, I'd get nice birthday cards I'd frame and put on the wall. I've actually found some Christmas cards I forgot to deliver to some of my friends.
Each time we wanted to watch a movie together we'd make small pieces of paper and write the names so that we all get a chance to pick the movie.
Books were my only treasure and I'd feel like a king if I could afford the luxury of spending the last of my pocket money on them.
I've never been a fan of photos, but I seem to appear in a lot of them. I even have one painting of myself.
2 years ago I got a dragon sculpture from a friend because I am Khaleesi. I love that present because it's weird, it's lovely and it has a cool blue light when you plug it in. Yes, my friend, this sculpture can be plugged in. Deal with it.
Back then, I'd write on scrapbooks and notebooks in a small writing that's now spreading from page to page because of the low quality pen I was using, making it impossible to read.
Remember when we fell from a boat and I got my Kindle and phone soaking wet? I kept those 2. I'll probably throw one away because the other is sufficient to remind me about this one.
Now I don't need so many things. I go to parties as myself, I no longer need any costume. I no longer get so many cards and if I do, I don't frame them anymore. It's because people tend to fade away once their writing has been framed. I watch movies alone most of the time, mostly because I can't stand it when people ask me about the plot instead of actually following it. I no longer buy so many books because I have a subscription to all the public libraries in Catalonia. I've learned to appreciate photos, but I still don't take a lot of them. I hereby thank my friends for taking a shitload of photos and sending them to me.
I'm sad I'm leaving again, I'm happy I know what awaits me. Now I am sure my heart cannot be still.
Now I am sure I'll never follow crazy dreams again. I'll just be happy with normality and every time I'll miss being a loveable idealist I'll open one of the shoeboxes I have and remember the times when I used to be one. And my heart will be as young as it is beautiful.

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.