Indubitabil, Nu Conteaza.

No wonder I keep losing friends; I make the saddest choices. Pfff…

“Frica de singuratate recent aparuta in formele ei maladive este terenul cel mai propice al compromisurilor si umilintelor umane. Din aceeasi frica, ne ratam vietile, iubim umbre de persoane si ne alegem orbite periferice. Ne arunca in fata privelistii a unui neant interior aparut pe fondul uitarii unor relevatii initiale.”

Adi, ce frumos mi-ai furat subiectul! Acum tb sa inventez ceva nou. :)

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…

Recently, I’ve noticed I put as much effort into being joyful over peculiar things as into great discoveries, that I just ran out of LOLs and my energy’s been squeezed off to the max. I’ve also noticed my blog doesn’t reflect me anymore. Have stuffed so much junk in, it has become obnoxious.

Need to refresh, but for now feels I have no clue as about where to start or where I’m heading to. People that read it yell me feedback: “Change template. Change style. Change something.” Well, folks, if I don’t change me first, why then redecorate my home?!

Some more, I’ve noticed SEX STILL SALES. Or buys you mates. Massively, ’round the globe. No breakthrough news, and marketers will blame me for redundancy (check!). But hey, am I the only one who sees things done dirt cheap in mashes and POSMs and billboards all around? I find it awkward that men are only driven by translucid flesh & tiny waistlines. We’ve landed on the Moon, created robots and nano-tech is going sky-rocket. So, where’s the fun in stalking teenage girls in bars? Are 40-over women doomed? Are 50 year olds bound to die in pain while attempting suicide? Are decent men extinct?

Furthermore, I see myself digging the gap between the world outside and the teen generation, whose sole aim is to gather like sheep and drink and talk nonesense, then go home, sing in and chat their brains out, rollback to partying hard, and chat some more and hit on guys/girls over IM, and have VoIP sex (‘cuz cybersex is so out of date). Geez, I must be getting old if my perception shrinked as much as wanting to have a pain-free long-term relationship! (LOL)

N-am timp sa ma plang, n-am timp sa ma bucur, n-am timp sa… nimic. Si stiu ca nici tu n-ai.

De aceea te retin acum, aici, o clipa. Sa nu dispari de tot. Sa mai respiram putin acelasi aer pixelat, impreuna. Tu de-o parte a monitorului, eu de cealalta…

Nu te vad si nu ma vezi. Dar simt, si stiu ca dincolo de interfata asta pretentioasa, si tu ma simti prin fiecare rand, prin fiecare link…

Stiu ca ma crezi o ciudata cu toane. Si-ti dau dreptate, pe alocuri. Si te sarut pe frunte, ca de obicei…

Cu drag,
yours truly,

womanchild

Poetii mi se par niste oameni teribil de tristi. De aceea, nu-mi citesc decat propriile poezii, ca sa-mi confirm ca inca sunt o vietate cu emotii. Una care NU plange la telenovele ca apoi sa se smiorcaie pe blogurile altora. Ci se exhibitioneaza in versuri simple si diforme ca sufletelul ei mutilat de alternante punctuale intre depresie si frenezie. Sau in proza, pe blogul personal.

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Poetii mi se par niste oameni extrem de tomnatici. Angoasele lor, mai ales cand sunt scrise in versuri albe, ma cuprind univoc, fara putere de impotrivire. De aceea, ma strang ca in cusca si ma alienez de tot ce-mi pare viu si gratios. De tot ce-mi pare uman, in ultima instanta. Ma arunc in mare uitarii si ma dau la fund, ca si cum nu as fi. Eu, o vietate atat de rasfirata.

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Poetii mi se par oameni pervers de subtili. De parca numai ei stiu ce vorbesc si noi, profanatorii de volume, nu vom fi in stare sa le descifram subliminalul. De aceea, ma straduiesc sa scriu cat mai criptic cu putinta, sa vada tot omul ce n-a vazut nici Parisul, nici Micul Paris la un loc. Si de-o iesi vreo transparenta, sa-mi fie cu iertare. N-aveam somn.

@Bianca: Cred in conversi, in barbati cu zulufi, in cizmulite colorate si bluzite inflorate,
in tinerete fara tinerete si viata fara de viata. Si in… Dumnezeu. [NOT joking! :)]