miercuri, 17 iunie 2015


There is something romantic in insanity. There is something beautiful in loosing your mind. There is something wonderful in jazz and literature into the dept of the night. It makes you feel somehow special, even if you know that's not true.
There is something special in the insecurity that no matter how many words you use or what language are you talking, the one next to you might not understand. Oh, and there is something magical in people. Toys of fate. Masks that wonder through the world, searching for other masks to interact with. Oh, and the panic when the mask slips.
I'm alright. For the moment there is nothing in the Universe except me. I am the only point of reference. I am the novel, the bibliography, the author and the reader. Because this time it is the Universe that is lying inside me.
I smile thinking that now the only way I understand everything is through the eyes of literature. That is not insane, that is common sense. We will understand by the terms of what we know best.
It's been a while since I've wrote in English. Somehow, I felt that this is the way to cheat the vigilant eye of my worse critic. I don't actually care if you think that this is perky, it's just an alternative to what I usually do in order to achieve my unstable illusion of stability. I am alone and that does not bother me now. Oh, yes, the desperation and sickness and fear were there, still are actually, but my dark pigmented playful friends are tired now. I don't fear them now, but I know that that is something temporary.
My mother once told me: I sometimes talk to myself because I need to talk with somebody intelligent. I know that it might sound weird, but i am afraid that if I would actually find someone that would fully understand me it will be a shock and I will feel even more empty. Even though now I don't feel empty not full. Maybe the glass is changing in size.
'Drink me'.
There are so many words. The entire world is just a dictionary. It doesn't exist if we don't have a name for it.
Sometimes I wish to make a mess out of all the languages I know, just to be sure that I'm clear. I juggle with at least two or three mindsets when I think. And this is very interesting. I'm scientifically split in my own mind because of the use of more than one language. Like a personality disorder.
And I find that lovely and grotesque at the same time. Grotesque. That is a perfect example of how you can contain yourself in more than one copy. When I say it in my native tongue, I feel it almost shapeless. When I say it in English it gives a Victoria scent. In French it almost looks like a melting piece of art, giving me a feeling somewhere between fascination and nausea. In Russian it sounds almost aristocratic, somehow. In Norwegian it's cold.
If I can talk something else besides misery, that means I'm fine. But I'll need a break soon if I don't want to collapse again. I'll just hang in there, like the cute fluffy cat-sheep-bull that I am.
So many 'I' in this post. Makes me wonder.

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