"These tears they keep on falling down on me
These tears they won't be gone with autumn leaves"

How many storms have washed the streets throughout these years? How many people have died?
How many tears have washed our cheeks and what is the cost of a smile?
How do we separate night from day, if all we have are dreams to keep us feeling alive?

Addicted to pain we shall become when every minute hurts and we try to hide.
Addicted to wishing for the the untouchable, but you don't want anything else.
How could you care about others if you don't anymore care for yourself?

Pieces I brought home

Those depressing moments when the time has come to return to the concrete jungle. But in my mind, I'm always in similar places. Here's what my phone kept:

 

 

 

Oh, and I also finally found my dragon!

Walking towards dead-end

As an inevitable result of our chimeric desperation, we will end up looking for this dark-clothed figure that isn't limited by any outlines. And you somehow wish it would prove itself completely inhuman. Once you will have gotten tired of the tideous daily of human life, you will feel it is about time to dare aiming higher. You aim for the absolute. Once all of your hopes - nurtured back when life was just about to begin - are turned to ash, when your eyes will no longer flicker, your search will commence.

Back in the day, when you were sitting in the benches of school, daydreaming, drawing your beautiful aspirations on the last pages of a notebook or engraving them onto your desk with the tip of a compass; back when you thought that, in just a few years, the infinite possibilities of an ideal world will open up to you and you will finally be able to enjoy settings you had envisioned, you thought you'd have control.
You will crave and you will search, voluntarily blinded by the risk of repeated disappointments.
Those ripe days and nights of ecstatically anticipating times of delirium to come, timeless times and limitless space, of fascination, smoke laces and magic...gone. Your ideal world ahead, everything was possible. You could lay with your nose poking upon the pages of a book all night long, living parallel lives, at your discretion...at your pleasure. Could afford to wake up after one hour's sleep, with the reminiscence of magic still pulsing through your cognitive muscles and nothing else around you would matter in the following hours. Could get lost, child as you were, in a sunrise you were secretly watching by the window after a secretly sleepless night, lost in music that resonated with your feelings to the point of perfection and carried you towards new ideas and dreams. In the creative process of a drawing, a melody, shape of a cloud, smell of old pages. You were sure life will reach it's hiatus one day, the romantic and the artist within had to rely on this.
You created obscure, semi-abstract images, the perspective of this world you lost yourself in and got too used to. All the freedom you can imagine would be at your feet, a realm without any authority or boundaries other than your own, nobody will hurt you anymore.

But, my dear, there comes a time when this thing called "reality" kicks in, and an invincible sort of boredom will end up taking it's toll on everything you used to be, together with the need and automated responsibility of survival, gradual resignation of becoming a tiny engine of society. This is all so meaninglessly fractional in the eyes of the Universe that any of it barely exists. But from your own eyes, it is everything, you are everything that you have, essence of the child determined to triumph and wanted to live in a different world.

And guess what? Along with years passing and the experiences they bring that are too heavily packed with "reality",  you'll have lost a great deal of authenticity...you're tired. The ascending exhaustion will transform the hope of escaping into genuine obsession. You search for more, with sweat pouring down your face, eyes popped out and red, too focused to even blink, gaze fixed on some target hidden someplace beyond the portal between this life and That One. "There has to be more than this vapid, predictable world" - you say to yourself. Maybe you could take matters into your own hands, maybe there can be more for you here. Maybe you could somehow isolate from the ordinary and live in those dreamlands, to seclude the love between yourself and the Child in you, that is becoming your Ghost as you grow up. You don't want to share it with the surrounding world that you were born into. After all this time, you feel that it is still alive within, it exists...and you are selfish. After all, you've waited for too long for the two of you to finally live, the mundane has no place in this bond so idyllic and pure. In our terrestrial existence, it seems almost impossible to "merge the mundane and the magic" atfer all. You could finally fulfill the wishes of the person you once were. You could meditate in peace, you could fly again, you could touch those heights of a sinister beauty. You could...but you can't. The black hole of ordinary life is sucking away your blood, your energy, at the same time nailing your feet to the ground just so won't fly away, to continue being it's productive little engine. If you go your own way, you are useless. So you strive, with whatever is left, that unsatisfying quantity. The supreme frustration is that you must sweat blood for a little part of something that was natural, should've been natural.

Thirst for absolute takes over and you seek. You look for liberation, this allmighty evil entity, the great inhuman, in the darkest corners of humanity which you're still trapped in. But not for long. You look for it in the winding forests of  your last hope, shrouded with the thorns and carress of the unknown. At least the unknown can restore your perspective of unbounded possibilities that you once held on tight to. You almost want to take refuge in an infinite journey, to keep on searching. At least it feels much better to look forward to something, than look back and return to find the same you ran away from. Hand in hand with your Ghost, your absolute love, you proceed deeper and deeper into this intriguing place, pacing through leaves that have fallen to the ground and melted into it, the abrasive touch of blackened moss, trees that filter the blood-red light as they reach for the moon. There is no need for words. You walk and walk, with a mutual sense of calm resignation, with a taste of the final victory on pale lips. Darkness falls around the two of you, more and more profound, swallowing you with each step.

You are prepared to be the sole witnesses of your loosening from the world left behind. Pitch black - the most beautiful feeling you have ever had. The most beautiful and the last one, and you are connected more than ever before. Like an orgasmic moment, the superlative of all feelings approaches in streams, the ending ceremony for the death of generic human life. Darkness embarces you gently, and then the grip of it's arms tightens. Captive in it's embrace, you and the ghost of who you used to be are joint again, suffocated by agony and an unexplainable relief. Just like a starving giant, blackness of the unknown smothers you.
Welcome to the portal.

It's merciless torns pierce you like skewers, flesh blends with flesh, blood blends with blood. This is more than you could ever hope for, sharing the supreme experience that can be only lived once. And died once. After the last synchronized breath, you fall onto wet soil, united in beautiful carnage on this cold ground, and irony smell of seething blood sets in over the putrid stench of nature long gone. You have escaped, you are free...you found it. The black entity of dead-end has fulfilled it's mission once again.
You and ghostchild from your grip have married Death, the eternal communion.

Oversaturation

Ha, oamenii spun ca nu ar trebui sa iti faci griji.

Sunt de acord, si am vazut pe mult mai multi oameni mult mai panicati decat mine in situatii tensionate, insa s-a mai degradat sanatatea nervilor mei in ultimii ani, in special fiind toata viata o persoana careia nu ii place sa se complice daca nu castig nimic semnificativ din asta, vrea sa fie lasata in pace si sa isi asume singura consecintele faptelor sau procrastinarii sale. Sunt capabila sa gandesc situatia de la inceput (sau prezent), pana la capat, luand in considerare fiecare outcome posibil, in functie de pasivitatea sau activitatea mea.

De exemplu, mai demult, in lungile perioade cand stateam inchisa in casa si aveam putin de lucru in acea perioada, ma simteam cam pierduta. Stateam zile in sir focusata pe ceea ce imi placea sa fac, ma refugiam in carti, muzica, iar apoi prietenii buni, sau amicii care, desi stateam intru-un orasel trist de plicticos, erau nenumarati (n-ai zice asta cand vezi cat sunt de singuratica si plictisita de oameni, nu?). Ma distram, iar in carapacea puteam visa la discretie si ma simteam bine, in inutilitatea mea.

Ideea e ca dupa ce ai stat ani in sir inconjurat de oameni, unii fenomenali, altii mai putin (din diferite puncte de vedere), te cam saturi. Nu mai conteaza care cat e de inteligent sau ce fel de inteligenta ii reprezinta, sau cat e de fun, de reliable, te saturi. Iti ajunge daca petreci timp cu unii sau schimbi doua vorbe o data la cateva saptamani bune. Avand o experienta atat de vasta cu oameni, cu prieteni, cu amici si cu cei care ma urau sau au ajuns sa ma urasca, atatea conversatii pe atatea subiecte, muzica, arta, si cu cei mai apropiati - filosofie, cat si small-talk, glume, nazbatii gen intrat prin efractie in gradinita noaptea cu sticla de vodka si calatorii spontane de care nu stia familia, cam toata lumea a devenit previzibila pentru mine si ma plictiseste tot ce ar avea de spus, to be honest. Pe atunci era ceva nou, tot voiam sa descopar, tot speram sa ajung la descoperiri satisfacatoare in ceea ce priveste fiintele umane, dar dupa ce ai ajuns chiar sa cunosti sute sau mii de persoane si ai avut diferite tipuri de relatii cu ei, vezi ca e acelasi cacat peste tot, doar cate-un cacat este legat cu o fundita rosie.

 Si cand vad ce posteaza unii pe diferite retele de socializare, pe care oameni destepti ajung sa ii aprobe si sa ii remarce, mi se face greata si ma simt parca dezamagita si de acei putini oameni pe care ii admir pentru inteligenta si selectivitatea lor in societate...Sunt impresionati de niste idei care mie si altor copii banali li se invarteau prin cap deja de pe la varste fragede, consider ca e la mintea cocosului si nu au spus nimic special. Si atunci te gandesti "acelui om destept pe care l-am apreciat chiar i se pare vreo revelatie banalitatea asta, de se deranjeaza sa ii dea credit acelui chirias de spatiu virtual cu monitorul-scut?"

Acum am colegi minunati in cercul carora nici nu ma simt de parca as fi la servici. Insa ma panicheaza la culme faptul ca sunt obligata sa imi petrec 9 ore pe zi intr-un mediu dinamic, si nu mai am sansa sa desenez, sa citesc asa cum obisnuiam, sa devorez muzica oricand si oricat, sa ma uit la pereti si sa fac calatorii cu mintea mea odihnita oriunde am chef. Din start, programul zilnic din timpul saptamanii poate fura mult din ceea ce eram odata. Insa tin cu dintii si cu ghearele de momentele acelea.

Mi se par cam inutile aceste explicatii, deoarece traim in era socializarii superficiale excesive, in care mereu cauti sa te vezi in ochii altora iar asta sa fie intr-o lumina cat mai buna, iar eu voi parea doar o biata negativista care nu vrea sa se adapteze la mediocritatea inconjuratoare care fuge dupa noi toti ca un Pacman turbat.

Obositoarea experienta ale experimentelor pe relatii interpersonale, nevoia semi-falsa de adaptare in medii de acest tip m-au extenuat de-a binelea si m-au adus in pragul mizantropiei, nu "negativismul".

In cautarea Omului Negru

Ca urmare a acestei disperari himerice inevitabile, il cautam pe acest om negru. Dar cumva speram ca ultimul lucru de care va da dovada este umanitatea. Si tu iti vei dori sa il gasesti. Cand te vei fi saturat de banalitatea cotidianului vietii umane, parca ai tinti mai sus. Tintesti spre absolut. Dupa ce-ti vor fi spulberate toate lucrurile la care sperai pe vremea cand viata inca abia avea sa urmeze, cand stateai in bancile scolii si desenai visator pe ultimele pagini ale caietelor si iti gravai aspiratiile cu varful compasului pe banca, cand credeai ca peste doi-trei ani ti se vor deschide posibilitatile infinite ale unei lumi ideale si vei avea in sfarsit libertatea de a te inconjura cu oameni care vor fi exact cum te asteptai, vei cauta. Vei spera si vei cauta, voluntar orbit fata de riscul unei noi dezamagiri. Visai la momente de delir, fum, dantele si euforie, la lumea ta ideala. Puteai sta cu nasul intr-o carte toata noaptea, traind vieti paralele, la alegere...la discretie. Te puteai trezi dupa o ora de somn, cu reminiscentele magiei inca pulsand prin muschiul gandirii si nimic din jur nu mai conta in orele ce urmau. Te puteai pierde, copil ce erai, intr-un rasarit privit pe furis prin fereastra, in muzica ce rezona perfect cu tine si te impingea spre idei noi, in procesul de creatie al unui desen, unei melodii, unui obiect decorativ, si stiai ca vei face lucruri mari intr-o zi. Exact ca artistul si romanticul dinauntrul tau. Te pierdeai in imagini cu peisaje obscure si semi-abstracte, care creau atmosfera unei lumi ideale, pe care o asteptai sa vina. Vei avea toata aceasta libertate, lipsit de orice autoritate, nu te vor mai bate ceilalti copii, vor vedea ei intr-o zi... Cand dai de ceea ce ne place sa numim "realitate", te izbeste un plictis inegalabil impreuna cu nevoia, respobsabilitatea automata de a supravietui, resemnarea de a deveni un simplu motoras al societatii, care este atat de marunt din ochiul Universului, aproape insesizabil. Dar din al tau, iti consumi tot timpul si energia, tu esti tot ce ai, visele si esenta copilului determinat sa triumfe. Si ghici ce? Odata cu varsta si experientele prea reale pe care le aduce aceasta pe parcurs, ai pierdut mare parte din versiunea ta autentica...esti obosit. Oboseala aceasta ascendenta va face din speranta de scapare o veritabila obsesie. Cauti, cu sudoarea siroind pe trup, cu ochii iesiti din orbite si rosii, prea concentrat ca sa mai clipesti, asupra unei tinte ascunse pe undeva prin intunecimea portalului dintre lumea noastra si lumea Aceea. Trebuie sa fie mai mult decat atat in lumea aceasta fada si previzibila - iti zici. Ai putea face chiar tu sa fie mai mult pentru tine in aceasta lume. Sa te izolezi cumva de cotidian si sa traiesti in lumea ta, sa iti izolezi iubirea absoluta dintre tine si Copilul din tine, nu vrei sa o traiesti si sa o impartasesti cu lumea inconjuratoare. Dupa atata timp, in sfarsit ai vazut ca exista, mai este totusi viu ...si esti egoist. Pana la urma, ai visat mult si la iubirea asta si nu isi are loc mondenul in aceasta legatura atat de idilica si pura. Ai putea indeplini, in sfarsit, dorintele arzatoare a ceea ce ai fost odata. Ai putea medita, ai putea zbura din nou, ai putea atinge culmile acelea de o frumusete sinistra. Ai putea...dar cotidianul iti suge sangele, la fel ca si toata energia si te tine cu picioarele pe pamant, le bate-n cuie, numai sa nu iti iei zborul, sa fii in continuare un motoras productiv pentru el. Asa ca, te straduiesti, cu ceea ce ti-a mai ramas, acea cantitate nesatisfacatoare. Frustrarea suprema o constituie faptul ca trebuie sa te straduiesti din greu pentru ceva ce venea atat de usor si de natural adineaori. Setea de absolut preia controlul si cauti. Il cauti pe marele neom prin cele mai intunecate locuri ale existentei. Il cauti prin padurile intortocheate ale ultimei sperante, impanzite cu spinii si mangaierea necunoscutului. Macar necunoscutul iti da perspectiva aceea pe care ai avut-o odata, perspectiva posibilitatilor nemarginite. Parca iti vine sa te refugiezi intr-o cautare infinita. Mana in mana cu celalalt corp al tau, iubirea ta absoluta, pasiti calmi prin frunzele cazute si contopite solul moale, insotiti de atingerea abraziva al muschiului negru de pe copacii inalti care filtreaza sangeriul lunii. Nu este nevoie de cuvinte. Pasiti cu sentimentul comun de calmul resemnarii, cu gustul victoriei finale pe buzele palide. In jur se lasa un intuneric tot mai profund care va inghite cu fiecare pas. Sunteti pregatiti pentru a fi singurii martori ai dezlegarii voastre de viata lasata in urma. Bezna - cel mai frumos sentiment pe care l-ati avut odata. Cel mai frumos si ultimul, si va leaga. Ca un orgasm, superlativul sentimentelor se apropie in suvoaie, slujba finala care celebreaza moartea naturii. Intunericul va imbratiseaza bland, apoi forta bratelor sale creste. Captivi in stransoarea lui, va contopiti, sufocati de agonie si de o usurare inexplicabila. Ca un urias infometat, va sufoca negreala necunoscutului. Ati gasit portalul. Spinii lui lungi va strapung ca pe niste frigarui, se amesteca carne cu carne si sange cu sange. E mai mult decat puteati spera vreodata, impartasiti experienta care se poate trai o singura data. Si care ‘se poate muri' tot o singura data. Dupa sincronul ultimei suflari, cadeti pe solul umed, uniti intr-un carnagiu frumos pe pamantul rece, iar peste mirosul de natura putreda, se asterne incetul cu incetul mirosul de fier al sangelui clocotind. Ati scapat....l-ati gasit. Omul Negru si-a indeplinit inca o data misiunea.

V-a casatorit cu Moartea, eterna comuniune.

B.

The once sharp, shiny, immaculate toy was enjoying it's own peril on my already candycane-like veins. I was just in the process of rewarding it for the pleasant pain it brought me over the years, by giving the rust some fresh bright red flowing, luscious beauty, in the intimacy of my lair, when a weird sound made it's intriguing debut infront of the chamber. Nobody ever comes here. Someone was singing, the voice seemed to be based on purity and innocence. It was followed by a shy knock on the door. But the door was invisible...my cave had no door. Still, it was there. I always felt a barrier between myself and the world; in there I was the darkness, the rest of the world was the light. The entrance to the cave was a portal, it was that radical transition - for me into their world and from their world into mine. But they never wanted to enter my world, because it was unknown to them, they prefered not to know about it and ignore it. Occasionally revolt against it, if ever - in the best case. I never really entered their world either because of the opposite reason - I knew it too well. It was repulsive.
I only went out there to kill. Their crowded world of light was much bigger than mine, it felt right to compensate, create a hint of balance between my life and theirs, by reducing their number and taking some of their light with me. If they won't give it willingly, I'll take it...no matter how hard I tried, I could never feel sorry for the larva that was incapable of evolving into a damn butterfly. 
The knocking persisted, but looking at the invisible and probably inexistent door, you still couldn't see through it,  couldn't even get the wildest idea of what awaits on the other side. In a weird way, the constant layout was always there: the huge stones, pebbles, sand and the dry little dwarftree on the left.
'Come in.'
A small, disproportioned figure appeared in the doorway, slightly distorted by he conteur of light from outside behind it, as she entered my own personal hell. 'It' approached with careful steps, the candlelight slowly revealing her gruesome features. It was a little girl, that would hardly ever be called or treated as such in the evil world of light. One step closer and she stopped. Stood still, staring with her immense eyes. At first, they seemed empty with resignation, but were telling thousands and thousands of stories. While trying to read through them, it got too loud in my head. All the voices exploded at once in a chaotic contest, taking their chance of liberation, all of them emitting different tones, in the predominant shades of sadness, anger, and a wild kind of sadistic joy. Besides being too loud, her eyes were also bloodred, embroided with tiny orange veins. She had no pupils, her eyes consisted of the overly expanded red iris. The look she gave was not at all a warm one....but a hot one. The exaggerated redness of them burned you down to ashes that she would eat for dessert. She fed on your misery and would top off her joy by consuming the dust she turned you into. Savouring it. Her hair was messy on one side, and with just a few sleek strands on the other side. The messy side was red and the other one, gray. She had no teeth, she was drooling acid. Her body was still soaked in amniotic fluid and the skin looked sheer and fragile. Veins everywhere, competing with her palor. Her hands were tiny, but she could destroy everything she touched, whenever she wanted. Her umbilical cord was hanging on her stomach, and she had a bad habbit of chewing on it. Sort of like a reflex. Her name was B. She would make everybody pay for everything.
Not me. She came to me for comfort. She needed someone she won't fear, someone that won't fear her and push her away. Someone that won't hurt her in any way, like most of them maggots did. That's why she would get her revenge, it was not her fault...it was their own fault. They turned her into an abomination, the perfect world of light aborted her, never gave her a chance before dismissing her. Never gave her anything. She made her own paperboat and would play with it down below, in the gutter. She had papercuts, and a pet. A ragged lilac mouse with one yellow tooth called Dax. Dax was afraid of my dragons, but they were trained. They would only hurt someone on my command, I'd sometimes command them to hurt me...I enjoyed it. Their skin was rough and scaled, huge brown worn-out claws, sharp teeth and they always had to duck while inside the cave, because they were too tall to fit in it otherwise. There was ten of them, each one had countless little heads with myriads of white eyes piercing through the black air. As we just stood there looking at eachother, the uncomfortable silence got interrupted by a high pitch yell, then there was my monkey friend hanging down the ceiling, agitated. I would usually talk to it for hours, but now I was nervous enough, too nervous. I told my dragons to eat it and they did...
B. was oblivious. She layed down on the stone cold ground. After a minute, she crawled to the innermost corner of that room and after a long, painful reflection, she started telling me her story...