fitting in

If you cannot say anything appropriate, limit yourself to remarks about the weather.

The weather. Hmmm.
What can I tell you about my weather? It’s neither here, nor there. Somehow it’s stuck between seasons; it’s not able to make up its own mind, to take shape, to manifest itself in a familiar way. So it gets me all messed up, yearning for what it would be in order, but consistently fails to amount to such state of normalcy. So, I’m weather-less to some huge extent…

How about you? How’s your weather like?

And when you’re done with your weather
Know that I can care less about it
But the things I care for
You won’t care to tell me

Although I know about semantics
And assumptions
And the way your self-concept will hinder you
And the fact that it’s so hard to talk without meaning
For meaning is in people not in words
Things come out distorted nonetheless
To the point where it’s best to talk about the weather
Or about how we never fit in



Tuturor celor care va mai abateti pe aici: numai bine!!!!


food for thought

They say “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. Or that “it’s all for the best”. Hmmm? Is it really so? Who comes up with these sayings, anyway? Who wants to make “us” feel better about our failures, about the general misery that we swarm in, day in and day out? Are these people really generous when they come up with these little pieces of wisdom? Are they trying to fool us? Have they nothing better to do? Are we supposed to embrace all these phrases and live by them, blindly, for they’ll make everything seem less dramatic? And what’s wrong with drama, anyway? Life is what it is, and that’s that. There is no need for sweeteners – they won’t work, unless you float in a dream-like oblivion. All we need is a little bit of grace, I think. And that usually comes from within us.

Personally, I don’t believe that if you’ve survived something that could have killed you it means that you have become stronger. For the life of me I can’t swallow that. No matter how much I would be willing to try. There is no such thing as becoming stronger after you’ve been so messed up that you could have died. Both the body and the mind can, to some extent, heal themselves, but there’s always a scar tissue involved. And a scared tissue loses its elasticity, permeability, sensitivity and all that… jazz. It doesn’t function properly anymore. We do not become stronger, people. We become NUMB! It’s a different story, altogether.

Dream of a butterfly

by Ana

I found myself this morning
in my mirror
looking dazed
somehow smaller than before
tilted my head
searched the bags beneath my eyes
played with my nose
it had turned green, crude
a color my mom never liked
the color of bile, maybe
anyway… mundane details
to the body I had inhabited
propped up on a connection
of small sticks
what an imagination she
must have had
to draw a

Somnambulism senzorial / Sensorial sleepwalking

Noptile nu au miros
Au gust
De eucalipt de santal de India la vremea musonului
Il mestec pe aceiasi dinti
Istoviti in atatea articulari de cuvinte
Rostogolite de-a valma
Cu sau fara sens
In alte nopti.

Noaptea imi aud pielea imbatranind
Gandurile jucand baba oarba
Viata cu incetinitorul
Vad lumea mai bine noaptea
Fara culori este cu mult mai liniste
Pe retina
Si-n spatele ei.

Noaptea nu ating asteptari
Nu socotesc trecerea
Decat prin caderea in vis
Din care nu ma frang
Pentru ca nu ating niciodata pamantul
Ma trezesc mereu pentru ultima gura de aer
Chiar inainte.

Noptile imi frunzaresc zilele
Aleg cu ochii inchisi
Pun degetul la intamplare
Pagina asta
Am scrisul urat
Nu inteleg ce-am scris
Probabil ceva despre nopti.


Nights aren’t scented
They taste
Of eucalyptus of santal wood of India around the monsoon
I chew it on the same teeth
Exhausted by so many pronunciations of words
Rolled out all mixed up
With or without any sense
On other nights.

At night I hear my skin aging
My thoughts playing Marco-Polo
Life in slow motion
I can see the world better at night
Without colors there is much more silence
On the retina
And behind it.

At night I don’t reach expectations
I don’t keep track of the passing
Other than by dream falling
Which doesn’t break me
For I don’t ever touch the ground
I always wake up for one last breath
Right before it.

At night I fumble through my days
I pick with my eyes closed
I lay my finger by chance
This page
On top
My handwriting is ugly
I can’t understand what I have written
Most likely something about nights.

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