Trees that wear hats

It just keeps occuring to me..  that existential why. Again, I tell myself... anything... to what purpose? A God, ourselves... but what, exactly? For if we disappear, so does any former-superior beings purpose... and if God had us as a purpose... how is he any different for us? Shallow questions for a quiet afternoon. But what if we really didn't have a purpose (that is, other than one we put for ourselves)? What if our survival or death will ultimately not matter to anyone? What if the Universe just is... devoid of any universal purpose? Afterall... the Universe, as far as we can tell... is basically empty. 99.9999999999999... and on and on and on.. Emptiness. I mean... statistically... matter to the universe is like a grain of sand compared to the Virgo supercluster. We are the exception... And we STILL managed to exist... to have all the life sustaining conditions meet and the rythmicity of our home stagnant and all that good stuff. It's too_____to fit into words.

In drumul sau spre mantuire, puiul de om a cautat invatatura si intelepciunea altora. Multi alti pui de om, pe acelasi drum, s-au gasit pe sine prin lume, in diverse forme. Mantuirea este un tel carismatic, mai mult ca niciodata, toti fugim dupa ea. Si de altfel, de ce nu ai vrea, pui de om, sa inveti de la cel aproape de mantuire? Doar ca mantuirea nu are un algoritm. E usor sa uit asta, cand scopul imi blocheaza vederea. Cautand in mii de scripturi si carti de psihologie, ascultand mii de oameni intelepti, puiul de om realizeaza ca ce cauta de fapt este cunoastere, nu mantuire. Sete de cunoastere. Si realizand, poate afirma ca invatatura de fapt, te fugareste de la gasirea pacii, te alunga de langa tine raportandu-te la altii. Nu invatatura aduce pace, ci cunoasterea de sine. Nu fugi de tine, pui de om. Nu uita sa te vezi pe tine in lume. Sa vezi lumea. Sa o gusti, sa o mirosi si sa vezi cum interactionezi cu ea. Nu fugi de ea, nu fugi de tine in reguli si norme, daca vrei pace

Pentru a se putea adapta mai uşor unei lumi din ce in ce mai schimbătoare, în care societatea cere mai mult ca niciodată oameni maturi şi oneşti, ce se ghidează dupa nişte principii bine întipărite, nevoia unui copil, în primii 18 ani ai vieţii sale, de grijă, educaţie şi dragoste, nu a fost nicicând mai mare. Deşi principiile morale de bază în ceea ce priveşte creşterea unui copil sunt cunoscute de majoritatea populaţiei, o privire fugară aruncată asupra realitaţii ne confirmă contrariul, mai ales când vine vorba de centrele instituţionalizate, în casele de copii. Violența, fie ea fizică sau doar verbală, aduce cu ea mari probleme în ceea ce priveşte dezvoltarea corectă a individului. Lipsit de grijă şi de compasiune, fără un îndrumator care sa îl ghideze pe drumul întortocheat al creşterii în vârstă, psihicul copilului va începe să acumuleze frustrări. Cu cât mai mult se prelungeşte tratamentul, cu atât mai mult e de suferit, primele victime fiind educaţia şi capacitatea de relaţio

Little bones that craddle with respect.. If I were alive I'd wish they never met How was I to see and to have checked Your waiting hands.. Halt your constant search You got me wandering off to crops so please Let's sit under this birch Let us crave the constant ease Laid on cherries. Tickle in myself My head is banging on the walls and shelves Too bad I'd wake my fathers Oh, they're dead... Nevermind or never to have checked.. Your arms.. So come and ease my pain The silence's gettin louder than my 6-string gain Let me scratch your window pane And I'll kiss you on your lip You will never see it coming just one bit Get undone on the stairs' lower tip On the 55th measure of a beat... I've looked long enough, come.

Draft 1 The backspace key erased about 200 letters so far and you'll never get to know whatever information they contained. Is that frustrating? It might have been an insight into string theory, but no one will ever know. Aristotles' ideas of calculus have been simply erased from his manuscript... should we regret that? Same goes with bad decision making... but life, this way... it's nothing more than just failures, accidents, fails, mishaps, hatred and blames and judgements, courts that 'decide' who is 'right' and what is justice. We do need justice for our society to work, but this is not quite the point. We give ourselves the authority to decide and blame and judge almost anything. We talk a lot about who is to blame, personal developement, being that 'better' person. It has to 'feel' right first, we have to be integre, or maybe you don't believe in all this and want the opposite. Every person has an idea, a personna(-i

"Ha! Taci. Te rog. Te oblig. Taci! Taci putin, simte tensiunea, simte putin si tu ceva. Esti incapabil. Devin nebun cat stau langa tine. Violent, ce n-as da sa te pot snopi cu sunetul meu. Muguras de fluier. Feciorelnica primadona a unei prefate. Crezi ca mai am rabdare cu tine? Cata compasiune crezi ca am, cata intelegere? Daca mi-ai vazut doar starile astea, nu ma cunosti. Ce? Te sperie? Inca nu mi s-au inrosit ochii... ce raspunsuri cristaline prin inima. Taci. Ce credeai ca se intampla cand moare zambetul de pe mine? Ca renasc si devin mai bun? Ha, eu sunt ura. Eu cred in ceva si tu nu. Eu am principii. Eu ma laud cu munca, tu nu te poti lauda, ti-e rusine. TACI! Ai inflorit, pleura pe creier ce esti. O sa-mi iau un cutit si te tai pornind din lobul occipital. Atunci de abia devin orb cu ochi rosii." -zise puiul de.om catre adictie

Metaforele sunt si ele un mod de a pune problema. Mereu am crezut ca sunt folosite ca peocedeu de distorsionare a realitatii suficient de tare incat sa realizezi ca traiesti, dar totusi nearatand intru totul hidosenia problemei. Iar vietile noastre sunt pline de metafore. Adica "#$^@ mea", nu "vorbele si faptele tale imi ranesc integritatea pe care cred ca o am, te rog revizuieste-ti comportamentul sau chinuie-te sa ma minti". Ador momentele in care realizez ca nu am nimic. Ca am pierdut totul. Posesiunea, desi drept din nastere, e doar un lant in strangulandu-ne sufletul. Fie ea materiala, sociala, spirituala. Experienta e o posesiune, prietenii, cunostintele, durerea, regretele, asteptarile, scopurile, religia, opiniile, preconceptiile, anxietatea... Durerea. Nimic nu am trait mai intens decat momentul in care am realizat ca nu am nimic, nu reprezint nimic. Nu aveam alta sansa decat sa fiu eu, sincer. Liber de boli, de ignoranta, de razboaie, de judecata altor

Imi las un moment sa realizez ca reusesc sa ma exprim mai bine in scris alaturi de alti oameni decat singur. Abia incep sa imi dau seama ca prioritatile mele sunt pe dos, ca am trait in minciuna proprie. M-am concentrat pe modul in care ma vede lumea, in loc sa imi traiesc complet sentimentele. De mic, au crescut in mine complexe si frustrari. Tocmai din cauza lipsei de sinceritate... sunt slab si imi este inca frica de judecata. Nu am putut sa ies niciodata din casa increzator in mine. Asa ca am decis sa fac orice ca oamenii sa aiba o opinie buna despre mine. Am uitat ca trebuie sa ma dezvolt in interior ca abia mai apoi sa exprim asta. M-am concentrat doar pe aparente, pe asa zisele "principii" pe care mi le-am format. Cu cat mai mult realizam asta, cu atat mai mult am inceput sa urasc alti oameni pentru exact greselile mele. Pentru ca mint, pentru ca nu cred in aceleasi lucruri evident "corecte" in care credeam eu, in acelasi timp pastrand o masca de om since

Nu pot sa fiu ca tine. Nu ma pot exprima asa, am un perete in fata. E frustrant. Nu stiu ce sa iti mai zic. Te plagiez intr-una. Nu am disciplina ta, nu am toate realizarile si experienta in spate. Si totusi vreau sa fiu ca tine. Sa arat ca tine, sa reprezint pentru oameni ce reprezinti si tu, dupa atata lupta. Si nu pot. Pentru ca nu sunt tu. Versurile tale imi rasuna intre tample in timp ce imi dau seama ca daca nu ma opresc din visat, daca nu ma opresc din a incerca sa arat ca tine, nu am sa mai pot sa fiu eu insumi. E foarte greu, te vad atat de perfect. Vreau sa sar peste lupta si sa ajung direct veteran. Vreau sa vada lumea ce am de oferit. Vreau sa tin acel interview cu inima, nu cu gandul la ce vede lumea. Salvati-va simtirea de crusta de superficialitate.

All left craddled over walls Were flowers and open doors All that sounded with novel rows Were folded into paper crows... All the dreams and open rooms All my visions in 4-note grooves Nothing but a rancid taste And a goodbye whispered in haste. Now we're dancing all alone We're both waiting the room's call The room is bound to drive us back The drive has passed 10 minutes back. With your fear of what's out there Close your eyes and buy into the fear Pay the tribute to windmills long gone Draw them for your own son Pay the license to my head Pay, for my fingers bled.

Dragă conştiinţă, Nu îmi amintesc o singură dată când societatea mi-a spus ca nu pot. Asta pentru că nu i-am arătat încă societăţii ce pot. Desigur, oameni m-au judecat, criticat şi luat peste picior câte odată, dar ei nu sunt societatea, ci doar noşte voci demne de respectat, similare cu a mea. Şi până la urmă, dacă aş ţine aşa mult la opinia societăţii, ar trebui sa îmi amintesc că şi eu fac parte din ea. Asta ar trebui sa îmi dea o idee despre unde trebuie începută schimbarea, din interior. Uniţi schimbăm! Unita societate! Sincer, Eu

Puiul de om creşte si calca pe urmele omului. Nu are multe optiuni, caci drumul batatorit este larg si greu de deslusit. Ca si textul fara diacritice, pustiit si greu de deslusit. Puiul de om nu crede in adancimea urmelor lasate de mama, dar se convinge o data cu chicotele ce rasuna din gropita in care cade. Ca si gropita de pe obrazul fetei, si ea pui de om. Putini ajung sa batatoreasca drum nou, multi adie calare pe leaganul cu sfori de comfort legat de strabuni. Sper ca tu, pui de om, sa vrei sa vii cu mine. Poate drumul meu nu va aduce nimic nou, decat pe noi doi leganandu-ne pe el si tinandu-ne in brate. Noi nu am mai calcat drumul, noi suntem diferenta. Poate voi fi nimeni, dar cu tine chiar voi fi cineva. Pui de om, hai odata. Vin altii din urma iar eu nu te astept. Eu inca ma mint ca am sa batatoresc pasi noi.

Can you please finish your dinner? I have something to tell you... Can you listen to the music? The blues, the bends, the legatto... Can you please get into my head right now? I'm done explaining, it's just my qualia. But I need you here, inside. I actually don't need you, I rather fancy you... you look so beautiful. And warm, you'd jump on your knees whisper insane promises only I would understand. Lies. But you know we all exist because of lies... and you're willing to play along, telling me every little lie of yours. My appetite grows bigger, but even looking at you is barely enough...  I always want more, but am afraid to ask. But you also know it, I've been honest too. And our love ends with the last bend.

Poor ice crystals on my eyelashes... happiness is closing my eyes shut. As I vacuum the wrinkles off of my forehead, I do bow in front of this extraordinary machine... the human body. All the words, encrypted or not, everything has been said, and my body tells me I'm out of letters tonight. But here is an open letter to... Dear body, You're not me. But you make me. Through your filters, I am able to see the world the way you allow me. How all the energy stuck up in some places... to give birth to atoms and... planets and trees and life... and yourself and I. We both need each other. For I wish nothing more than to change the status quo... to challenge the seemingly unstoppable forces that try to bring us all to a standstill. Much as if I am trying to lift a rock that just wouldn't move otherwise. Why? I'll leave the phylosophy to other more able-minded energy forms.  Thank you, for your muscles. Your tongue, that conveys the screams. Your eyes that delive

It often comes a time when you should be feeling something you don't. Allow yourself a moment to truly not be genuine and stoically feel it. That's all it takes. Calm, compassion, and perhaps even the littlest hug. Now go hug that tree, go hug him/her. Go feel free to feel. Feel anything. Stop reading through paragraphs as much. Be rational, what could life be about if you don't experience? Let yourself develop. Let yourself mistake and grow. Be allowant, and also, always learn. Forgive yourself. Forgive others and show them your mistakes. Show them to yourself first. Allow passion and avoid distractions... just sometimes, for the hell of it. Choose whatever you want and be happy that you're alive and are able to make a choice. From the most grim, to the most insignifiant, it's all a matter of perspective. Always choose, and don't let yourself paralysed. Walk and keep walking along with yourself. Always be yourself, try to stretch your mind and think healt

Chiar cred ca e pacea de pascani :)). Dar nu cu apusul. Cu luna. Uiteeee energie. Ti-ar fi placut lacul daca l-ai fi vazut. Are si insulita ^^ E dragut cum redescopar locuri abia dupa ce m-am mutat. Bine, probabil nici nu ma impresiona acum vreo 6 ani , dar chiar lacul asta mi-a dat energie in seara asta Poveste..imi vine in minte povestea pe care ai zis'o cu omul care merge pe propriul drum uitandu-se la cer. Probabil pentru ca e ultima pe care am auzit-o. Nu chiar. E chiar ciudat si amuzant modul in care unele lucruri au ramas exact la fel. Dar sunt si schimbari, si sunt chiar okay cu asta, desi doare intr-un fel Simt tot. Unele mai puternic, altele mocnit. Dar sunt acolo totusi.. Sunt tot felul de sentimente care poate se ascund sau le ascund eu. Toti ne nastem intr-un Pascani. Fii recunoscator. Fii tu, intoarce-te acasa. Si nu uita. Oameni sunt peste tot

Jack dies every other week. He gets a new womb right after that, he has his ways. It's just that the cold and frigid air of doctors screaming childcare advice is too much an effort. So he gets put in an incubator and holds his breath till he dies. Except when he doesn't. Sometimes Jack climbs up his umbilical noose and strangles his mother. And the cold air grasps him. It's all dust and small particles of flesh. His mother fed him with it. Dusty oxygen to burn in his mucles and flesh to be made human. Jack's mom awakens within him. It cooks up the oxygen. He is given your name. He silenced the doctors and broke out of the incubator. His umbilical cord will haunt him limb. But he'll live one less womb.

Livin on double time It's a heap and a mongrel on a jewel Killin on throwin dimes And rolling goes the nickel I dream of moments when i'm so far away And i strangle their thorns when my claws are at bay Why won't you crawl to me, oh I crave Save, save your money, go get a train Just go, you'll stumble and fall This keeps me alive Just do that far away, or otherwise i'd love you and help you back up. Just can you please leave? Your ego's swollen to my smitherins On a cupboard there's a shiv On whose back i got your reigns

Daca vrei, vino la mine. Vino si intelege, intelege ca inca mai pot iubi. Asculta, ai putea auzi multe povesti ca prima. Vino sa te tin. Vino sa iti arat ca poti fii tu, si ca poti fii cu mine. Opreste.te din judecat, e totul pentru tine. Ma arde, fiindca la tine chiar tin. Da, ma doare si trec prin foc singur. Si asa o sa faci si tu. Dar dupa ma gasesti scuturandu-te de cenusa. Iar inainte ma vei gasi stingand jarul pana cand caldura te va alina. Si tot doar tu vei trece. Ia-ma... fii sincera, fii calda cu mine, calda ca focul pe care incerc sa il sting. Si eu te iau. Nu ma voi trezi dimineata doar pentru asta. Nu vei fi totul pentru mine, iar nici reciproca nu va fi valabila. Nu vom trai doar unul pentru altul. Vom fi mult mai mult. Vom fi recunoscatori. Vom respecta. Ne vom plange infima sansa de a ne cunoaste. Nu o vom lasa sa dispara. Vom avea ceva mult mai profund. Un noi. Nu vreau sa iti spun ce va urma. Vreau sa crezi. Vreau sa lasi sansa sa zboare. Hai sa zbura

Fell on black, rugged days. Fell on sticks and clogged gears. Fell on my own cochlea, my knees burst. No spine, no back, no legs and some tuning pegs No dime, no rhyme, no sense if what it could mean. It lost it all, weeks ago, when the sun set and she fell in love. It lost it all along with myself, myself undergoing a blackwater skallywag of an aching storm. Nameless pain. My limbic brain collpases under melatonine induced life withdrawal. I crawl along my own cracks, i shiver my hands away and i keep looking up. Monotone rings in my, now torn to shreds, recluse of a mind. The schafolding fell, the gratefulness consumed, i gave in to my life console. A  master made of teenage teeming desire to fit in and derive meaning and reward. Conscious mistake, gushing through my veins like adrenaline. My pupils vanished in bleach. Sweet caress. The numbness I look up to you. You're the only thing i have left. My support, my helping hand, my mother, my sword and shield, my plural, my w

Aici zace un om fara cuvinte.

Imi pare rau ca nu pot fi cu tine cand dormi... si imi pare rau ca arat asa putin. Imi pare rau. Te iubesc, sa stii. Mereu am facut-o, si cand nu ne cunosteam, si daca nu ne cunoastem. Mereu ti-am stiut demonii, iar tu pe ai mei. Imi place ca atunci cand eram mici, nu iti dai seama... dar vorbeam. Da, chiar noi doi. Imi e dor de tine. Si de tobogan. Si de scranciob. Parca as vrea sa ma lasi sa imi vad de viata. Dar parca n-as vrea... adica esti singurul lucru constant. Faptul ca existi. Te admir pentru asta. Ce daca nu ai ales sa fii constient? De ce ai pune asa multa valoare pe lucrurile constientizate? Pana la urma, tot tragi adanc aer in piept si iti dai seama ce frumos e automatismul respirator. Ar trebui sa facem asta cu existenta. Imi e dor sa ma asculti asa. Stai la mine in poala si mori oleaca, fiind cu mine... sa nu ne mai desprindem niciodata. Mori si tu, mor si eu... ramane ceva la fel? Inca suntem. Drumul din piata spre casa...23 de metri, de doua ori pe zi. I-a

Mergeam spre groapa de gunoi Eu cu sacii plini, ei cu sacii goi. In plumbul greu ma simteam vioi, Ei trei faceau dragoste in doi. Veneam de la centrala cea pe aburi Eu cu argintii-n buzunar, ei cautau prin lauri. Rupeam cu dintii de un colt de paine al unei ciori... Ei radeau, pe mine pa treceau fiori. Mergeam la groapa cu noroi Ei se scaldau plini, noi ieseam goi. Miroase a tei iar eu plang gunoi... Mai putin gu, mai mult noi.

This... mountain of solitude this... pile of interpretation. Don't we... at least I feel alone when I see you looking at the same picture as me and talking another language. Language... it's powerful indeed. For everything is subjective... Phylosophy is almost useless. You just won't make anything out of what I say, and I have a problem... I just phylosophate for your own goddamn sake. What I make of this world? It just is, along with us. As an insignifiant part of it, with an ego big enough to dream of changing it "for the better"... now I choose to respect. And love, and admire, and be astonished. Why? Because I have to choose a way to express myself, don't I? All this talking... text is irrelevant... meet me and I will show so much more. I'll end with this quirk of grammar we call rhymes... why? Just kill yourself And on the empty blackboard you will be reminded That you forgot twenty books a shelf Filled with your delighted. Just let yoursel

I do indeed struggle with writing like a kid. Perhaps you do indeed lose your ability to write when... when you leave your backpack behind. When you roam. When there's only you on the road. A road of a foreign language, new currency. Frigid trees, dry roses... it's you going ahead. Just going. There's no end. But if you stop, you die. There's no up, there's no down. It's just you walking fast or slow. Tripping on a branch or sprinting. It's all your perspective of the road, how fast it's shifting from beneath you. So go ahead, die. I'm not ahead of you. I'm not behind. I'm not besides, I did not forget you. We're both nomads. We both have to go. And if you don't carry yourself... yes, you could be carried by someone. But that wouldn't be help. Cuz you would still not be walking relative to the road, who is now the person you're standing upon. So roam, brother. With pride and confidence. We're both the same, a

Every night, I write. I cannot write. I have to. I am not prepared. But this text has to write itself. And that is it. My mind is blank. I have dilluted everything. Let me go, body. Let me go. Let me drown in sorrow. Leave me be, mind, leave me to it. All experience is a culprit. Listen close, listen well I can't sing nor dance and tell. I can't laugh or jump or cry I'm less immortal, I do not die. I live it dead and leave it be You're living in a spree. Old-fashioned of gloomed yellow. I just have no one to write next to

It's a column. A column with seashells attached. Upon which two bloodied hands grip. Hands with hard fingertips. All powerful hands. As they climb, plateau. Plateau it's not, word it is, express I will, express for you. On this plateau you can rest and climb no further. On this plateau you can either look down at what you've done or up at what you have not. You can continue to climb. Till you put yourself a limit, retire, and rest forever. First time i took your hand, it pulled hard. And i realised, either you were higher, trying to pull me up, or maybe i was. I climbed faster, but effortlessly, so did you. As I sweated, you smiled at my riddled face. You seemed sublime under the sun and rays above. You were neither high nor low. You were me. And I, you. One without knowing. Reflecting one another. Your effort did not count, for it was within my own. And my own, in yours. My tears were your smile and my smile, your tears. We are one. Being. Climbing. Mirrored. Pre

I never told you, how i picked up berries Never fold you, held you in my palm. Like you did, with all of my worries. Did, and cried me numb. I never told you, It meant more than spring. More than fourth, more than april. It meant heart of fathom and seat of king. Of a queen laid martyr. At least I did, how I've sinned Listened to a bow sing sparrow Ive eaten toward lean fangs i leaned. Bones in the marrow. I grawl and thirst, I.m eaten aside. I cast the imps of imps passer's by. I'm you. Blue. Gaze your green eyes Graze without a map. Like a sheep, whose fists o track. With kites

My shotgun is loaded full. My thirst for blood is high. Don't step on my pain. Its little daggers will hurt. Toil. Hunger. I'll feed on your shivering frigid soul. I am depleted of emphaty. I cry. Tears are serene, they cascade in ochards whose leaves waterfall in oceans. I'm stone. As paralysed. I am afraid. Consecutive breaths fire. Urge. Purge. Nonesense of a tree with no branches and a root of a trunk. Its leaves float and you can't even see it in your blissful manner. You're blinder than me. Who am I to care that you walk? You died looking inside. First thorn you hit scared you. Scarred you. Come on, little Jimmy, come here. I BITE. Are you afraid of thorns, kid? Your mommy ain't here, your mommy left you grow a rose with thorns. LIAR. Thorns don't love, you idiotic slime. She left us two alone to play. So you saw I have strings. You pressed, and pressed... opressed my chord. And i ringed... mixolydian. Lydian for hunger and mix for the paint you t

A visceral infusion of warmth. Motherly warmth. Head leaned against the knee. Eyes closed and tears... sweet, carefully chosen from among thousands of painful tears. A sweet of a candy that hugs your tongue, and knows when to stop. Fists clenching and veins pumping the smoke out. Lungs tired and filthy, breath is trembling. Cleansing in its warmth. Since loneliness felt sublime, now craving took its place. To capture the sunset with 10 intertwined fingers, and paint the sweetness off of every breath. Heads leaned aginst each other, stars adancing. Dancing still, feet frozen. Frozen with cold sweat in excitement. Music, accompanied by silence. Blending, whirling around the heads, closer. Closer. That craving, like a race. To spit out emotion. Like the crust of a scar, rip it open and throw it out. Leave a blanket bleeding. Bleeding warm and sweetened blood. Emotion, emotions. Raped anxiety. To be back here with me, to feel me. To put your hand on that less than charismatic wound an

Fairly large an empty hall with two satin seats. You were on my right, leaned back against your own vertical spine, I was as well. You were watching the show from afar, seemingly attentive but rightfully distant. With the corner of my eye I was observing your every twist. Your torso twitching, in spasms of emotions, I took note of each and every one. I loved living through your breaths, having completely forgotten about the show in front of us. Distant... frigid.  I could have almost reached you, but my nerves were caught tangled in versions of what could be, whose instant happiness guarded our skin from ever meeting. Perhaps it's in the pain of having lost a battle. What drove me on my knees with my guitar in my hands screaming "Scorch" to the tip of my lungs. As i lay in bed that night, pain overgrew me, consumed me, i had no wall. Neither did I wish to have. Now I can recall my body twitching with your same spasms of emotion. I borrowed your sublime I could not rea

Robinetul mai lasa sa curga cate o picatura. Cadentat. Ritmat... ca un ciocan. In genunchi statea trandafirul alb, si cate o petala cadea, se prindea de un spin, cadeau impreuna. Ramasese mugurele vulnerabil... cresti. Iar mugurele striga: "Iubeste-ma! Iubeste-ma! Iubeste-ma!" Tu citesti. Iti vad ochii curgand printre randuri... vreau sa-i prind eu. Sa-i prind cu ai mei si sa te surprinda... sa ma apuci de mana din frica si sa ma rogi sa te las, e prea multa durere. Iar eu sa-ti rup o petala si cu ea sa infasor un spin de-al meu si sa-l fac perna. Nu-i rau la mine in suflet. E comfortabil, vino. Eu stau de paza noaptea, mugurele nu va ingheta. Prinde-ma de mana, incearca sa ma ridici, cazi cand te trag. Incearca din nou. Hai sa ne asezam pe o banca. Poate plantam si noi un trandafir. Sa-mi expun disperarea distopica, sau sa expir aerul mucegait. Nu e disperare... e emotie... e dragoste... pentru ce ar putea fi, la care nu ma astept. Sa stii ca te iubesc. Asa ca hai. Intu

Serotonin, the hormone of happiness. It all derived from some extraordinary feedback (thanks, Raluca :D). My brain signaled my blood to empower my muscles, in a sort of a fight-or-flight response, leaving my stomach clenched. A drop of cold sweat shivers down my tired hands, and my back falls in the warm embrace of a frigid wall. Warm, for i exhale living heat and my dormant nerves have been awakened. Words just roll painfully slow off my fingers. I wish not to force them out, my hair guards my right eye from anyone who would dare enter my chamber. I realize my legs have taken the shape of a spiral, and my body is in pain from stimuli all around... my armpits cascade the dopamine sensations of an exhilarating heart. I close my deep, dark eyes, which from not that afar seem penetrative, they have seen plenty. I picture scarlet begonias conquering the trunk of yet another tree. Spiteful, filthy spikes of red roses, against any wits, fight to protect beauty, waterfall into the abis,

Goary desires through threads of angel dust Dispense noble gardens and roses of her lust Her eyes were growing eager with the love she had for me Her hands I never touched and her lips I'd never be. Si hey, ar trebui sa incepi un blog. Poate e o persoana interesata. Okay, I'll quit Romanian. I gave it a try, I can't talk like that for long. I hope this won't share it's fate.  Maybe it will be better to expose all my thoughts here, on a spec of dust that is a miserable link in the depths of the vast Internet. So please excuse this paragraph, dear innocent reader or me-from-the-future, as i explore the plethora of possibilities that lie (yes, L.I.E, cuz it's all a lie for you, you don't see things the way i do, it's subjective, it's my organic perception of this raw heaven i bestow with words upon your shivering soul)... was i saying..? Ah, the possibilities of making a blog and my foremost curiosity. I'll probably act retarded in the first f