for all I know

For all I know, we thrive in chaos,

For it’s all we’ve known for sure.

Always serving as an oasis,

Always closer to the shore.

Always there, fast lane, front line.

Run a kingdom, build an empire.

Owe the risks to red dry wine, 

Hands still tied, Dunhill on fire.

Know no love, run on desire.

Stay away from lonely places,

As they’ll only be your pyre,

As they’re never in my graces.

Could never fall for what we know,

Couldn’t ask for more this time.

Only feelings that don’t show,

Only once partners in crime.

Keep the silence, keep the keys,

For it’s a cliché I despise.

“Don’t search the room, don’t stop, don’t freeze 

When you look into those eyes.”

Take steps back, no aftermath.

For all they know, my name’s forbidden.

I’ll never guide you on this path

For my heart is always hidden. 

No words, no looks, no reckless thoughts,

The basic rules, the same perfume.

We never learn, too many shots,

We’re back into the same dark room.


to forget to think

There was this infamous line that said “oh, teach me how I should forget to think”. Besides citing the most mainstream shakespearian work, I might have begged people in my past to teach me this, but not in a “Romeo-in-love” sort of way. I might have learned it later myself, and it might have backfired once or twice. 

I no longer have a sense about how time works. There’s a blurry, dark, twisted and barely even there dichotomy between now and later. I have the time. I found it. I’m ruling it. I must have done something right. There’s no past, but a foggy Saturday afternoon. There’s no goddamned tomorrow but a rainy Tuesday night. There’s no “used to be”, no irony. There’s a Parliament on fire, fingers intertwined, the timing to blame for the trembling voice, the nighttime to blame for my eyesight erasing you out of context.

And there might be time. And there might be a lesson to teach. For now, I can’t forget to think. 

despre “voluntar” și un colț de plajă 

Tu ce ești? Sau ce vrei fii? Sau, nu, nu, și mai bine, ce raspundeai când erai mic la întrebarea asta? Acela era răspunsul bun. Acela de pe vremea când puteai fi orice. Și acum poți, dar ai uitat. Și eu uitasem. Totuși, dacă întreabă cineva ce vreau fiu, răspunsul meu preferat e “un dar pentru lume“.

De câțiva ani, colecționez zâmbete, oameni și povești. Mi-am construit o plajă, iar amintirile sunt firicele de nisip, poveștile sunt sunetul valurilor. Am construit-o și m-am mutat acolo. Marea de zâmbete îmi tot aduce daruri. Iar eu ofer zilele călduroase în schimb. Am fost val, am fost nisip, dar înainte de toate am fost voluntar. Am vrut fiu orice, încerc din toate și învăț mult. Deci am fost voluntar. Am vrut mulțumesc, dau ceva înapoi și scriu povești în cartea lumii. Deci am fost voluntar. Am vrut creez, definesc și dau mai departe. Deci am fost voluntar.

Am făcut voluntariat așa cum face oricine. Din inimă. Cum, când, unde, pentru cine? Lucrurile astea rămân scrise în nisip. La finalul zilei, contează lecția, sentimentul și colecțiile întregite


Am imaginea asta în cap de ceva vreme, un soi de polaroid vechi, lăsat în soare. Apare ca niște flash-uri puternice, de genul celor care te lasă scuturând din cap și clipind de 10 ori ca să-ți revii. Și totuși, nu e genul de imagine care te bântuie subtil atunci când cazi în prăpastia aia întunecată dintre trezire și somn, nu, e ceva orbitor de-ntunecat care te lovește ca un cub de gheață în miezul unei zile de august. E aproape o imagine care nu reprezintă nimic. Aproape. E un colț de plajă, o noapte târzie, o barcă de lemn părăsită, un spate gol, și încă două persoane la fel de confuze ca tine. Fascinant era, de fapt, acel spate gol, cumva străbătut de linii albe, orizontale, inegale. Dungile alea erau un trecut. Cândva era un nume acolo, sculptat atent în coloana vertebrală. N-ar fi trebuit să se întâmple niciodată ceva care să provoace ștergerea acelui nume. Întâmplări au fost, și au trecut. Și n-a fost nevoie de experți, de chirurgi, să taie-n carne vie, să acopere fiecare literă, și cu ea fiecare amintire. S-a șters. Rana a fost închisă. Au rămas cicatricile din polaroidul vechi. A rămas și intenția de a scrijeli, cândva, același nume, cu altă semnificație. Când acel nume va avea alt sens, mai bun, mai relevant, mai matur.

Ai 20 de ani și ți-ai sculptat numele în oase de zeci de ori, și știi că ai s-o mai faci tot de-atâtea dăți. Te-ai definit, ți-ai descoperit capacitățile, calități, defecte, ți-ai făcut un CV și aproape știi și ce să faci cu el. Ai fost de atâtea ori sigur că ți-ai descoperit toate misterele proprii încât ți-ai scris numele pe-o hârtie pe care-ai îmbibat-o în propriul sânge și ai zis că ăsta ești tu. Apoi te-ai răzgândit. Ți s-au spus povești despre ce nu-ți poți tu aminti și deja numele nu mai coincidea cu tine. Și ai luat-o de la capăt. Iar. Și iar. Și ai să continui să o iei de la capăt până ai să-nțelegi că cine ești și ce ești sunt două concepte care nu se vor întrepătrunde niciodată. Ești cine ai tu impresia că ești. Și ești ce gândesc alții când îți aud numele. Ești un străin, un prieten, un frate, o iubire ce-ar fi trebuit uitată.

Ești propriul nume sculptat agresiv în coloana vertebrală a celui care nu ești tu.

what I never earned

Growing up, we’re taught a bunch of useless stuff, along with some quite-as-useless guidelines that are supposed to help us become better. It’s usually the same for everyone. Be good, do good, help old people cross the street and feed the cat every once in a while. I’ll forever love and hate what the universe taught me from the very beginning: that I’ll always have to earn the smallest of things others just get. That I had to make up for my parents’ mistakes, that I had to build everything from scratch for it to actually be mine.  When you’re a kid, it seems natural, everything looks as if it’s exactly the way it should. And you wake up one day, somewhere late in your miserable adulthood and understand your life does not belong to you. I had to wake up at 10, being someone I’d never thought of, with this cliched backstory, and a couple of years ahead to figure life out, to earn a family, to earn some friends, to find a way to deserve the “normal”.

Now I’m still wide awake. Time passed by, I earned my name and two or three people that know it. Yet everything I never deserved made me into what I am today. I never deserved help, so I helped as much as I was able to. I never deserved love, so I endlessly loved everyone I’ve ever met. I still long for happiness, and I still have some strength left to try and earn it. I still think it’s unfair, I still believe I’m not the only one. I still hope that someday, years from now, things will fall, for once, together. It’d be a life I wouldn’t know how to live. You can only have that much love to give, that much hope and strength to keep going. And I’m running out of them all.


It sometimes takes a long time. To feel better, to be better, to do better. It took me too long to learn to take a step back and simply look at myself. It was one of those long nights wishing for something to always be there. A thought, a sparkle that would just never leave me. Or one of those nights I was only wishing you’d be okay. And in those nights I’d picture myself leaving, aware that there was nothing I could ever come back to. Turning to a clean slate. Writing in an empty notebook. Writing differently. Yet I knew I couldn’t. Everything in my life has forged me into what I am now. I’d walk through fire and I’d reach the moon in two hours on a rainy Tuesday morning. I’d visit heaven and hell on a starry night in August. I’d be the glass shattered on a hotel room’s floor and I’d be a masterpiece in a museum. It was violent. It was scary and I’m freaked out as I still have a lifetime left. 

It’s not strength, it’s routine. It’s not admiration, it’s pity. It’s not a blizzard, it’s a freaking tornado. And I’ll take steps back and count them. And I’ll reach stars and count them. And I’ll find an end to this infinity.

wish you well

Three years ago today, was the last time I saw you. It was that kind of day that would make me wanna dance on a crowded street as I make my way through the steady figures I didn’t pay attention to. The sense of home, the rush of blood, the sunglasses and an old leather jacket. You were a familiar summer rain. One I both waited for and was afraid of. One that caught me off guard, opened a door to a warm and stormy future and then disappeared. Too quickly. The sky cleared out and the sun was shining too bright. The unbearable heat yet came from inside me. The fire of an illusion was burning from within and I was the clear sky. Shapeless. 

For three years I dreamed of you. I dreamed you called my brother a couple times. I dreamed you died once or twice. I heard you when some friend was talking and I saw you in my mirror’s image. 
You never got to see the person I have become, and I know we’re both fine with that. I found a way to miss you and never want to see you again. I learned to wish you well and to hope you will never drown in that dark regretful soul of yours. I may have convinced myself once that I’ll forgive you sometime. But why give forgiveness to someone who expects empty excuses? I won’t apologize for your mistakes. I won’t ever wish for you to need me or miss me. 

I think I’ll meet you once, years from now, in the coffee shop of some gas station on a highway in some other country and you’ll ask me how I’ve been. Until then, I wish you well.