Alba-Iulia and Sighisoara, citadels and ruins. I suddenly felt myself as a ruin, I didn’t know how juxtapose this feeling with travelling. I wanted to ensure my virtual reader that nothing can be felt more intensely than decadence. Maybe I was influenced by Nietzsche’s jewelry.
To offer pleasure, to be beautiful…there’s something beyond the words attached to senses.
I wanted to separate myself from both friends and poets. I want to live my own life without excluding realistic debates (Yeah, I know I shared my train space with gipsies from Arad talking about money, that is, jabbering and mumbling, leaving no place for my sleep). I want to gain what differentiates me from any other human being (not authenticity, just a clear-cut non-essentialist infinite way of looking at the things, of understanding people). I know I’m a victim of “postmodern” schizophrenia” and I’m astonished by the conceptual lungs that people live with. My left lung is banal, as it includes a realistic fashion of depicting life experiences. My right lung is fabulous, I can hardly wait to breath. I haven’t found my nostrils, though I have so much written about and with them.
Simeria! Where have thou placed me? In time there’s no time, each second counts as much as a brick in a cosmological wall stubbed at ease with artificial, i.e. mental, violence. I succumb to Bajenaru’s “Cismigiu and Co.” as I find it as attractive as a Henryjamesian novel. My left lung…and my right lung inspiring Nabokov. Two lungs communicated with my heart: my virtual reader. Should I say I’m near you?
My thought was like a swan kept in a flight. My thought was reversed: it would see my past filled with hugs and memoirs lost in angelic palms. Who’d embrace me as a pillow? My mother (the one who wisely educated me to contemplate mirrors), aged 82, died when I was 15 years old. She let me smiling in front of her coffin. I took a coin and span it until they inhumed her. I thought a storm would cover her grave and force a tree to spring out from the greasy dust. I discovered my past when it was too late, realizing she wouldn’t come back. I was Oedipus’ wreck, so happy to devise a poetical mechanism that would save me from madness.
Longing to eat raisins…raising along the markets, on the top of any commercial purpose. Listen to me, Cristine! Kiss me when I sip the juice of these solid bubbles. I should hug you with my right lung and never leave you…you’re so lengthy in your pajamas, so sober when you hair touches mine. I wish my love interfered with your fingers and twisted in your eyes. I wish love had the ubiquitous form of a snail. I wish you’d be a letter, a blank space between my footprints to caress you all day long. I wish you wished the same.
