finally

फुक हेर। ऎंड नॉट इन थे गूढ़ सेन्स.

fuck that summer

just that. fuck it.

dissociation

tonight i played some songs i haven’t listened to for some time. they feel strange. as if it’s been years since they made me smile on buses... i’ve been looking for a particular kind of music lately and i purposely avoided other music... i hate i always associate music with some things, places, people, feelings. so i decided to take the test. i guess i failed, but there’s still hope. i’m working on dissociating things, places, people, feelings.

tired

she texted. same old sorry lying shit. i have nothing to say. or i have too much to say but it just won't make any fucking difference. i've come to think there's a weird logic to it... again i was caught up in something else and it allowed me to live through the edge smoothly. good.

i abolished you

it makes me sick to think of you
my stomach clenches with horror
and i long to vomit the parts of you that homed in me
your breath is toxic
your mouth leaves bloody traces on my heart
my organs convulse with repulsion
at the sense of your inept heart
your fingers infect my veins
your grotesque love pollute the air
and i can’t breathe around you
your hideous words foul the spaces they fall upon
you bring a monstrous world with you
and i refuse to go on.

academic background

blah blah blah.

investitie

mi-a dat sufletul faliment si nici macar nu mi-am dat seama.

next week

i'm on my way to a big decision. i'm ambivalent. i'm scared. i'm offended. i'm hurt. i'm ashamed. i don't know if it's intensity or pride.

trembling

i feel all this energy building up inexorably to my own effacing in front of you.

schedule

fuck everyday moments of respect. and fuck you for scheduling me.

iulie

uitarea da-n clocot. azi imi sunt degetele usoare ca praful. mi-e greata blanda de plans. ma sufoc treptat, dar mi-e bine. mi-e lipsa mare si grea. mi-e mana fara gand, degete, cuvinte. imi fug semnele de punctuatie, mai ales punctele de suspensie. mi s-a prins un carlig mare de pirat in tampla si-mi zvacneste din cand in cand ochiul drept. si cel stang. ma ajustez cu incapatanare, dar tot mi-e sufletul dat in parg. mi-e calendarul sangerand.

lack

i'm in the middle of nowhere.

pain

i go to sleep with it. i carry it in my dreams. it perfuses every nerve in my heart, it flows through my arteries, it travels surreptitiously through my body. i drag it with me everywhere, like an extra limb, deformed, visible, shameful. but there’s one moment of incertitude when i wake up, a moment when i don’t know exactly what part of me hurts. the pain is still there, but it’s diffused, fluid, familiar, somewhat sweet. then the knot lowers to my stomach, plaguing my intestines, jolting into my cunt. i raise my trunk but i can’t stand up. i’m strangely filled with loss.

refusal

i refuse to inhabit the world you built. i refuse to respond to the subject position you ascribe me. i refuse to take on the label dependant. i refuse to see my feelings as too much. i refuse to accept i am too scared. i refuse to comply to your requirements. i refuse to censure my words. i refuse to moderate my feelings. i refuse to temper my intensity.

the day

just this huge day. this space doesn’t exist anymore. when one sets limits one signs the dying certificate. not death, cos the process takes some time. when (another) one invested so much in something this (another) one cannot suddenly accept death. but (another) one is (pain)fully aware of dying. hahahaha. good words are still good, but not (good) enough anymore. i don’t know what could replace/ restore/ re-make this space. but it's funny... its circularity, regularity, perfect timing. just perfect. i like short numbers, i would have hated fractions.

(em)body

even the hairs on my arms are tainted with you. when i swallow my stomach spins. i feel like throwing up.

throat

the throat is the center of my body. but the center works as a barrier too. let me describe you my throat. imagine a thick piece of rope. now imagine someone who has just realized how fucked up her life is. she then takes this rope, twists it slowly around her neck so that an elegant and slippery knot should come to life. a knot with its own life. bigger life than hers anyway. she wants to pull it. the work of art would be complete. her fingers are incessant. her fingers were loveable. her fingers could build colorful cords from one side of the earth to the other. her fingers told many stories. now her fingers feel obsolete. now her fingers don’t push buttons anymore. now her fingers feel old, pathetic, dependant and dumb. as any abandoned fingers. as any anonymous fingers. she doesn’t need those fingers much anymore. she doesn’t like her fingers much anymore. her hands, as to emphasize this uselessness, have gone dry. drier than any time before. so has her throat. so has the rope. so she soaps her rope. she pulls one end to make a perfect knot. that’s my throat.

and i have no other way but to soap my rope.

compas

formele mele nu sunt suficient de mature.
o sa ma coc la un moment dat,
intr-un anotimp apos
sters de pe calendare si harti.
si am nevoie de un marinar care sa-mi calculeze
longitudinea semintelor
si sa-mi decojeasca pielea
rand pe rand
strat dupa strat
si sa-mi invarta codita ca la un mar,
sa numere literele posibile,
sa-mi gaseasca o initiala,
sa mi-o taie in felii radiale
si sa ma hraneasca indurerat cu propriul nume.
o sa ma autoconsum
cu frenezia cliseelor poetice,
o sa-mi vina inapoi gustul acru al prenumelui meu androgin,
o sa vomit litere si culori –
pasta fara sens si consistenta.

o sa am nevoie de o scobitoare
sau de ata de dinti
sa-mi scot resturile nemestecate
si sa-ncerc sa fac din ele o noua limba
mai putin gretoasa.

hello

my forms are not mature enough. i’ll ripen sometimes in some late watery season erased from calendars and maps and i need a sailor to compass my seeds and peel my thick skin. then the sailor should hurry to spin the wheel of my frantic heart before it says hello, anyone there? hellos are dangerous, trains and railway stations are dangerous, red bags and return tickets in any language are dangerous. my danger is inevitable. i take it wholeheartedly and i say hello again.

strawberry

the strawberry was sour. i haven’t given much thought to strawberries, their seeds have always somehow stood in the way. if i had been asked to write an exhaustive list of fruits, i wouldn’t have probably included strawberries. the choice is always personal. the choice is always biased. memory is personal and biased. memory is body. in this particular case body is tongue and throat. strawberries hurt my tongue and throat, so my body, through memory and choice, eludes and even rebuffs them. but my eyes like strawberries. they are sexual and full. tongue over/ against eyes. pain against pleasure. there is no pleasure that is entirely painfree. i don’t believe in the vice-versa. but I like exceptions. my body works in exceptions. not my tongue.

well, the thing is that i wouldn’t really know if the strawberry was sour...

shame

just this impossibility like a living barrier perfusing every mind-heart cell. lots of outrage and feeling unreal. the things i believe in knocked against the things others believe in slap me from time to time. i don’t understand many things it seems. and i am usually self-protective enough to flee reality when things get ugly. i’m coward enough. all feelings i don’t find the words to express behind one: shame.

snow

one full day. continuous tender sweet presence. low fenced balcony and bare tree tops, hands shivering and light snow. happying texts. feroce :)

oh well

the thing is that i don’t get it. i never seem able to get it, though i’ve been shown so many times that i tire myself out... sometimes i have this weird feeling of total uselessness and it’s so painful to get it over and over again, more often than not lately. i wish I could understand. i wish i could ask and get an answer. but neither my words are straight, nor will the answer be. the choice is always biased. my whole being revolves around a few words and i feel needy and ashamed. i just curl on the inside wherever the chance finds me and smiles and buses seem so far away right now.

game

oh, i forgot to say that grey days usually hurt. they hurt when you know. or when you think you know. and i hate it when i think i know, cos i actually have no idea. no idea at all. oh well, it hurts when i think i have no idea at all too. it hurts when i write. like right now. when i know it’s grey but i think it’s actually sunny. tooooo weird... there’s a big big world, that’s the problem. and it hurts to write. have i already said that? yeah, i guess i have... but it hurts not to write too. it hurts to be written. and of course it hurts not to be written too. the game is quite simple.

just figure out the conclusion. it's easy.

grey

how about grey days? are they blue or not? i guess sometimes they are and sometimes they aren’t. it all depends on the texts. different kinds of. texts are the sort of products that can be read alternatively. and there is a sense of equilibrium maintained by the words that don’t allow much space. though the processes that they send to are multiple. but equilibrium is something i have never learnt how to deal with. it’s just too dull and restricting. disbalance is my middle name.

tattoo

i’d get a tattoo. the kind that stays. the kind that is done directly on the heart. the kind that stains my t-shirt and my mind. i feel the words clenching fists in my stomach. way beyond that. way beyond anything. so simple, though. so human. and i sigh.

yesterday

the temperature, just like the time, works in mysterious ways. i am not cold because it is cold, i am cold because i feel cold. i was cold the whole day yesterday. that’s why i didn’t feel like writing, that’s why it felt hard to even talk. but i walk easily, i would walk all the time if i could. it takes the kind of energy that gives my thoughts space for other places, and the soundtrack is usually helping. only once in the last five months i was upset and took it on the soundtrack. the soundtrack is actually my way of assessing closeness and need. just like the temperature is the way my body lets me know when something is going wrong. sleep...

knots

my general backwardness is itching kinda worse lately. so i have changing thoughts in my head and the knots are sometimes so loose and sometimes they just tighten up to the point of explosion. but, of course, the fog has a main pain part in everything and i'm curiously, as usually, waiting for the next round. later round. breaks are the kind of things that worry me. coffee breaks too. maybe i need one right now.

city

there was this stupid poem for kids about the lights of the city being always on... i don't remember it, but it's funny how the lights are soooo lively on right now, i like to work here, it makes me feel good.

otherwise, the day was good, a few stupid blushing moments, but good overall, maybe something will come out of it, maybe february is closer than it feels and i don't know it. hope life's preparing a nice surprise for me, i guess i deserve it. yeah... whatever.

enjoy!

chocolate taste

i'm licking my heartwounds like a chocolate and i'm weirdly getting a familiar taste. so it's not necessarily the physical distance, but the heart distance. which is actually closeness. seriously, i don't always understand everything, but when i do, what a beautiful thing i get!

just wait and see.

why?

cos green days are just not blue.

mark my words :)