Am rupt iar foaia
Astfel m-am gasit de nenumarate ori cu pagina goala in fata ochilor. Cu pagina goala si creionul bine ascutit.
Cel care de multe ori ar fi mai de folos la calculat remedii pentru boli, la prins parul, pana si la injunghiat muste omorate cu sete si ramase pe birou. Insa e inca aici cu mine mai viu si mai loial decat alte dati si-mi umple pagina cu mazgaleli stupide despre cuvinte.
Acele cuvinte care te fac sa uiti ca-s doar cuvinte; acele litere amestecate, care de cele mai multe ori sar din pagina ca niste demoni nelinistiti si te poseda.
M-a mistuit prezenta lui, a acelui nimic ce-mi umple palmele de dor. M-a aprins si m-a stins dintr-o suflare. Pe pagina alba au inceput sa se astearna hieroglific alte sentimente. Cum naiba sa gadili corzile chitarei fara sa cunosti a canta?
Dau iar frau liber golului din inima, gandindu-ma ca, poate, linistea va alunga noaptea, ca poate mancarea arsa de pe foc va avea maine un gust mai bun. Nu ridic creionul de pe pagina iar frica e vitala in astfel de momente de singuratate.
Si mi-e frica tocmai de nepotrivirea bizara dintre noapte si creion.
Vesnicul meu iubit, vesnicul meu domnitor, vesnicul meu sclav. Ceturi cotidiene ti-au umplut ochii de nelinistile din confort. Iti recunosc lasitatea din intamplari mai vechi; te stiu dintr-o mie de suflete tardive venite la fereastra inimii mele, pentru ca mereu ai intarziat pierdut printre indoieli. M-am ferit sa mai citesc notitele lasate pe noptiera, dar le-am asternut pe piept pentru a-mi incalzi inima.
Sa recunosc ca inca mi-e frig? Sa-ti spun de ce nu te mai visez, de ce noptile-mi sunt torte amortite in cuburi de gheata si radiere?
Cuvintele, literele, silabele din parbrizul ce palpaie bizar nu mai pot impleti nici un rost uitarii.
Te joci cu degetele in lumea mea si delirez sa te vad cotropind acvariul meu zi de zi. Arunca-te. Umple-te cu mine. Nu te teme. In realitate si mie imi e frica, dar stiu ca pot rola intr-un chistoc fara filtru gandurile sovaielnice pe care sa le ard cand lacul are sa seaca. Voi avea rabdare. Ne impotrivim pentru a infinita oara genuflexiunii destinului! Sa lupt? Sa raman jos, cu restul de soldati raniti de prin transee? Sa vin? Sa plec?
Raiul nostru nu va fi o simpla insula virgina la marginea palmierilor. Nu vom avea ape curgatoare, cascade magice si nici cantari de pasari exotice. Va fi implinirea dorintei supreme.
Va fi puterea de a-ti atinge privirea ce ma incape si ma patrunde, curajul de a-ti simti cuvintele ce-mi saruta mana.
Va fi minciuna, platonismul, vom fi noi, departe de lumea materiala, imperfecta si trecatoare. Cu ochii inchisi, creionul le va dirija pe toate ca pe o simfonie a vietii.
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I tore the sheet again.
This is how I found myself countless times with the blank page in front of my eyes. The blank page and the well sharpened pencil. The one that often would be better used for calculating remedies for diseases, for catching up the hair, or even stabbing eagerly killed flies left on the desk. But it’s still here with me, more vivid and more loyal than other times and fills my page with stupid scribblings about words. Those words that make you forget they’re just words, those letters mixed together, which often leap from the page like restless demons possessing you. The presence of that nothing who fills my hands with longing consumed me. He lit me and he put me off with only one breath. On the white page, the other feelings began to lay down.
I set the hole in my heart free again thinking that, perhaps, the silence will banish the night, that the burned food on the stove will taste better tomorrow. I’m not lifting the pencil from the page but fear is vital in these times of loneliness… And I’m afraid of the bizarre mismatch between night and pencil.
My eternal love, my eternal ruler, my eternal slave. Daily fog filled your eyes with the anxieties of comfort. I recognise your cowardliness from older stories, I recognise you from the thousand souls who came late at the window of my heart because you were always late lost in your doubts. I tried not to read the notes left on the nightstand, but I laid them on my chest to warm my heart.
Shall I admit it’s still cold? Shall I tell you why I stopped dreaming of you, why my nights are torches numbed in ice cubes and erasers? The words, letters and syllables in the windshield that flashes bizarrely cannot plate a reason for forgetfulness.
You play with the fingers in my delirious world and I see you invading my tank every day. Throw yourself in. Fill yourself up with me. Do not be afraid. In fact, I too am afraid, but I know I can roll into a cigarette the doubting thoughts and burn it when the lake has dried out. I will be patient.
We are, for the infinite time, going against destiny’s twists! Shall I fight? Shall I stay down in the trenches with the rest of the wounded soldiers? Shall I come? Shall I go? Our heaven will not be a simple virgin island at the edge of the palm trees. We will not have rivers, magical waterfalls, not even songs of exotic birds. Will be the fulfilling of the supreme desire.
Will be the lie, the platonism, will be us, far from the imperfect and transitory world.
With it’s eyes closed, the pencil will lead everything just like in a symphony of life.