This is nothing. But the truth attempting an essay
I used to admire strong women - “a woman like a man“, as Damien Rice puts it in one of his songs… Not anymore, I don’t. They all seem fake and plastic on the outside. And on the inside, they look just like cardboard paper boxes: overused and on the go to be recycled.
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I have a vision of me which I tame will not be accomplished. Don’t know, I get this weird intense feeling that circles stretch around my waist, my heart, my neck… It’s like a kabuki nightmare you want to put an end to but can’t drop the curtain. I isolate myself in times like these. I too become a cardboard paper woman. Only my recycling brings me to a better world… Well, I got newsflash for you: this better world hasn’t happened in ages!
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A few days ago, I met someone funny and smart and witty and… I just rest my case. I do admit it: I’m a pusher. And good people that happen to cross my way become idols, dolls, then rags. Not all of them, no. But some, the best, if not cherished properly, end up losing themselves to me and me to them. A mambo-jumbo that often requires heart surgery after and tons of cellulose wasted on hankies.
Tonight I feel lonely. I feel so not me (and it’s not even the first time it happens). No, not depressed, just not me. I read Adi’s blog but cannot match the feeling. I am not a philosopher, though I studied philosophy for 2 years… Maybe I forgot it all, it happens. Or maybe it’s there, in the back of my head… But anywayz, this is not the point.
Tonight I’m sad and for good reasons. I am not a strong woman, at least not the strong woman YOU think you’d find in me. But I do my best at being bold. And I fail. And I get kicked in the ass. And I read books. Not self-help best-sellers, no. Plain library books, like Harper-Collins/Humanitas editions or so. (Yet, too seldom to mention.)
I love good books but have no time to finish any. The most recent book I read in whole was Rosa Montero’s “La hija del canibal”, translated in Romanian as “Ziua Inocentilor”. And I never finish my ideas, as you may well see.
So, being bold once does not guarantee you become imune for life to critics. And, as one said in a certain comment on a certain blog, “I like coaches and trainers better than critics” (my guess is critics are a lost profession).
Yes, lack of motivation kills. No instantaneously but like poison, in slow motion. It is what’s happening to me for a while now: can’t find joy in anything I do. I live routine like mechanical watches, counting the days as they pass by, slower or faster, rainy or sunny, better or worse.
For me, LOVE’s not a word, it is The Ultimate Remedy. I need a higher motivation, a reason to wake up in the morning and wink at the face in the mirror. And I believe a feeling of humongous proportions can embed it all: pleasure and pain, living and dying, rebirth and renewal. I believe it can transcend the gaps and cracks and spaces open that suck us in and lose our joy and hope.
I’ve had only one great passion and other big or smaller crushes. I even hallucinated of being in love, until I realized it was only an egoistical approach to bedroom and boredom. But NOW… Now it all has to be perfect. At least, the closest carbon copy to perfection. I am aware there’s no such thing on Earth as “identical fit”, but I could wear a glove with +/-0,01 inches failure…