A (Love) Letter to the Lucky Ones


for an anthology of letters, to be published in December

Dear lucky one,

I hope this letter finds you alive – all senses and engines burnings – and well. It might find you waiting in line at the Christmas market. It might find you taking a break from sitting in the sun. It might find you doing research for a paper. It might find you in your most uncomfortable outfit, a little too full of life to start cleaning the kitchen – and a little too empty now that everyone’s gone. It might find you in the light, in the dark, in the back of his favourite café, in foreign places, in your parents’ car, in between her cream-coloured pillows, before, after, in the midst of chaos – only, I hope, not too late.

This letter comes to tell you a few things I know to be true, in the naive hope that you won’t mind me not always leading by example. You see, I believe that love, even the love radiating from a stranger’s writings, is better than no love at all, and this is my way of passing it on. Love, as you know, is the only mechanism there is that can put both your warmth and your strength into motion, make you both gentler and more self-assured, sing you to sleep and ready you for war in the same voice. I will spare you the kind of love that social networks, extended families and old lovers are for – that yes, you are beautiful, unique, cared for and always welcomed home (wherever, whomever or whatever your home is) and no, not everybody can love you the same despite this. Instead I’ve got others, wrapped in just as much love – I promise you that. Take a deep breath. Read on.

Allow yourself to roll life between your fingers and laugh at its nonsense from time to time. You can’t change overnight – we build ourselves up too strong to slip into another skin at the snap of one’s fingers, even if they happen to be our own. If you truly want to become an artist, give up everything else and work on your dream for a year. If you don’t achieve anything then you belong right back where you started from. Nobody shows up at your door at three in the morning only to tell you that they don’t love you anymore. If they do, know that they’re lying. People are very bad actors. They never live up to your expectations. Let the world move at its own pace and you move at yours. Eventually there will be some collisions and some of them you’ll love, but you’ll never, ever love anything more than letting yourself shine through the bullshit. Never fill yourself up to the top. Let there always be room for more. Take only what is necessary. Take only what you love. Experiences stay in you, you move out of them. The sweetness and danger of losing control are grossly underestimated. There’s a certain beauty about being a mess too, about painting outside the lines, about outstretching your arms for things at top volume, at their most difficult, at their most needlessly complex. Don’t talk about fear in third person. Fear doesn’t have an identity. You are the fear. Always have a world of your own. Don’t be too eager to make room into someone else’s. One’s inner world is built on grounds that you’ll never fully understand, and you’ll always be cold and starved in it. Would you be happy, sleeping on the couch night after night? Complete vulnerability isn’t strength. It’s you losing to yourself, to your dragon, to your inner goddess. To life. Being yourself isn’t about being your weakest self. Safety is not always a friend. Safety believes that life exists all around you only to be contemplated in silence. Do not enjoy touch or use it, or anxiety will grow on you like bacteria. Indulge into knowing that you’ve made it so far, that you’re sorted, that you got to Heaven. That you are as good as dead. New-found energy is not exhausting. Still waiting is. When you’re on the run, intensity felt light. You remember indecisiveness as a long stormy night, and it’s just not poetic anymore. People and their traumas don’t go together like milk and cereal. If they make you their secret hiding place and you pull the curtains and let the sun in they’ll leave. Not everybody wants your helping hand. Some just want your shoulder. None of your tricks can free them, because freedom isn’t given, it’s taken. You can learn so much from your most badass version. Sad people are like blood clots, waiting there to kill you. Don’t let them melt into you and mix it with your own. The things that you’ve filled up with feelings will always incline the balance in their favour. Allow the new to show you a few tricks before you reject it. Put your heart into it, but don’t forget to take it back at the end of the day. Your fire is the most precious thing you’ll ever have. Don’t give it away to anybody. Nobody needs it. Don’t stain people with imagination and fill all the gaps with cotton candy. Let who they are shine through. Sometimes you’re overly excited at the possibility of having found someone beautiful, that you risk making up miles of them. Don’t. Also, don’t be a vampire. Don’t suck on beauty, on youth, on love; on life. Make silhouettes of spilled ink out of them and pass them on. It’s the essential endurance strategy for surviving the empty soul wilderness, for all I know.

Whoever you happen to be, dear lucky one, know that I mean everything even if I don’t live it all out loud. Ah, I almost forgot! One last quick piece of advice for you: always strive to make your own luck. You won’t get much luckier than that.

Love, A

I Am a Work of Fiction


Every second of the day is a question that only I can answer – and, because it keeps asking, I am no longer giving it the truth. None of it is true. I say this, but it could have easily been something else, and the best part is that no lighting strikes me down when I push back my sleeves and craft a different answer than on the day before. Nothing actually happens at all.

I am inventing, creating myself one hot minute at a time. I am rarely who I say I am for much longer. When inspiration strikes, I grab it with both hands and put it on in front of whoever happens to be there, which sometimes is just me. If it fits nicely, if I can work with it, I make a mental note to use it in a next story. I don’t dissect my characters on paper, I try them on first-hand and see how they do. It is spiritually invigorating to bleed like me, even if I always bleed as somebody else. My heart is racing, pumping fresh life, burning the diaries, deleting the child; I am my very own work of fiction on paper and off, and this is how I get my fix.

But let me start at the beginning.

I, too, was stuck in a linear story. The story was about me – but it was set in a place where the only way the wind could blow was forward and that, I thought, can not be right. I was living big, round hours for nothing. All they did was blur into the next ones. They did not not belong to me. The story was like a bad first draft. It could not be rewinded, the beginning could not be revised, reverse chronology was a myth and boring facts could not be skipped. Its reality was squeezing out much of what, from the outside, might have looked rich, juicy and fascinating; it was not. It was mundane and clear as day. It lacked details, clues, images, invention, fresh ideas, an intuitive understanding of who I was, which in the story was simply the holder of the lantern that was broken from the start.

Right before the spring, when the weather plays warm one day and cold the next, I began to write. With my head in the already thinning clouds of hope I wrote about the clutter and the cracks in the walls, the photos and the few rare objects displayed with pride in the rooms of those just like me. I was angry, troubled and unexcited; this is why I wrote. I still believed that telling the truth was important; part because I had nothing else to tell, part because I imagined that its ugliness would break it apart. Shortly, a quiet, tender sense of worth and belonging took over me as I began to embrace my intersections, and my questions, and my quest for imagining a world beyond it; my world, beyond it. And in the hottest month of the year I rewrote that world as I thought it’d be fair to have it.

Summer opened all my doors and let me out. Every night I came home excited to detonated more little bombs of ink pulsing with feel onto the pages where I could finally be myself – the self that I wasn’t. Within it I found the fragments that refused to be consumed by the world outside, like diamonds I could sift through to collect and discover my true design. Immersed in a whole new mindscape, I was brimming with ideas and a newfound strength to act them out through my characters. Stepping onto paper I made amends for the lack of me, colouring outside the lines and reshaping all the sharp edges. The new dynamics of my mind melted my fears into a liquid flux of poetic madness I never knew existed in me. I felt raw and fluid and infinite, and hard to hold. I taught myself to dream again. To live again. To be shooting stars and comets and fresh faces again.

I was crafting something personal, yet so universal for all to experience – releasing oneself into new worlds, like nightly dreams, where every absurd scene could slide smoothly into another but one doesn’t question why they’re doing what they’re doing; they simply wake up and carry on living something else. But people didn’t want to experience this. They said they didn’t feel at ease around me because they never know what I was thinking, and that my writings were abstract and absurd; like dreams they could not comprehend, so they pushed them out of their minds in the morning.

And life, life was as predictable as always, despite its little tides, its little current. They broke upon me now. I felt almost entirely disengaged with it all; and my writing wouldn’t stop, and my cravings wouldn’t disappear, and my desire for being and changing and being again was eating me away. My characters multiplied, and their power got to me, and I wanted to be them so desperately, only I couldn’t choose. I wanted to live all the lives, and think all of the thoughts and feel, oh my God, feel all the feelings I made up and believed in and fell to my knees in front of their unconsumed intensity, consuming me wholly. I couldn’t push past them. More love streaming out the wrong way was a clear sign I was going to die if I didn’t learn to love myself in real time, from my brightest lights to my icy darkness. But there is no room for somebody like that under this sun.

It was going to be either me or this world that was going to make it – and it was going to be the world, no doubt. The world as we know it can not be unwritten, and writing in small letters on top of the script will only create chaos and confusion. I learned that it was not the way to ask others to read me in my voice; they couldn’t decipher me, and abandoned me after my first paragraphs. I could blame them for not learning to read between the lines, or I could rewrite myself from scratch, swap my past for the new and present it to them instead.

And if they bought it, I could paste it into a hugely absorbing novel with a vivid style and a mad girl for the main character, like they don’t make them anymore.

And, whatever corner of the world they’d have gotten themselves chained up to, when they’d read me they’d say, More please.

And they’d think it was just a work of fiction, when it was me they read through all along.

First Story’s Young Writers’ Festival, 2015

This is books scramble. Many books on white background.

When I was 6, I started writing ‘poems’. When I was 10, I wrote my first ‘novel’ – can you guess what the animals were talking about? :) When I was 15, I worked hard on completing a ‘real novel’, one where animals would be replaced by angry teenagers struggling with school, popularity and existential matters. I knew I didn’t want it published, but it so happened that the right people believed in me at the wrong time, and got it published for me soon after I turned 16. I decided then that I never wanted to publish anything again in my life. Being a ‘real writer’ was terrifying and not rewarding in the slightest, and I had very little time to decide what to really do with the rest of my life – and so, I ended up in journalism.

Years later, by which I mean about a month ago, while working in publishing – come to think about it, my life choices sound a tiny little bit like a joke – I heard about a volunteering opportunity at First Story‘s Young Writers Festival. The two-day event was going to bring together over 800 young students in Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford, to take part in workshops and performances led by more than 30 writers. First things first – I felt a sharp pang of jealousy thinking of the children who were about to take part in all of that; and then, of course, I decided to go too.

First Story are more than just a writing charity. They are a bunch of incredibly passionate people who help students find, foster and celebrate their voices through intensive, fun writing workshops. The Young Writers’ Festivals are where the First Story years begin, with warm-up activities, reading and speeches (Patrick Ness and Sally Green this year) and the chance to get to know already established writers. Later on, First Story bring writers into secondary schools serving low-income communities and create tight communities of talented young writers – who are, at the end of the year, published in professionally produced First Story anthologies. Don’t even get me started on the book-launch events that follow…

The testimonials section on First Story’s website is superb, from

Many times I saw how liberating it is for young people to be allowed and encouraged and enabled to write about the things that really matter to them. To write not to get a grade, or pass an exam, or to help their school tick some silly little box, but simply because writing is the most personal, the most truthful and the most intellectually and emotionally involving activity you can imagine. I saw boys and girls making discoveries about themselves, about their lives and their friendships, their families, about their own abilities, that were really life changing. They learned a respect for craftsmanship, a respect for themselves and their own histories that would have hardly been possible otherwise. First Story is about precisely that.’ – PHILIP PULLMAN, AUTHOR OF HIS DARK MATERIAL


First Story has helped me socialise and know more about my class friends. It has also helped my ambitions on being a journalist when I’m older. It was nice at the end of each of the lessons when our poems were read out. Some weeks they were emotional and at other times they were funny. I feel that I can express my feelings and talk about things I may have never mentioned to anybody before. Also by hearing my class friends’ poems it helps me understand and relate to them more.’ – GEMMA, FIRST STORY ALUMNUS

But it took me no more than one moment, at the end of the second day, to truly understand what First Story do.  A seemingly shy little boy jumped on stage to read his poem, much to my surprise. His poem was pretty basic and my first thought was that he wasn’t quite what poets are made of. Then, when he finished reading and smiled nervously at the audience, and 1,000 people clapped enthusiastically, the noise instantly silenced my cynicism. I know where it came from, though. I have always thought that I would be fit to be a writer, and yet here I am– working a 9-5 job, hoping for one or two quiet hours in the evening to start working on another short story that will never see the light of a day in a publishing house. Who am I to think that the boy shouldn’t become a poet? We should all become who and what we want, after all, so kudos to those who make it.

Here’s what I really want to say after my experience as a volunteer: more and more I believe that, without the right kind of support, it’s almost too hard to keep going as a young writer. Ambition and resilience are wonderful traits, but they can only take you so far. Once there, and there can be anywhere you stop and start soul-searching and questioning your motives and your goals, it’s easy to fall off your high horse and lose heart. After all, as Elizabeth Gilbert put it: ‘You’re doing an inherently weird thing. You’re investing time and money into making something that nobody asked you to do. It’s inherently a wacky thing to do. You’re going to have strange feelings, especially about the uselessness of it all. (But then you think, I’m going to stay with it, because it’s more interesting than anything else.)’

When I was in secondary school myself, people supported me as they knew best, but publishing was quite a myth. Nobody really talked about it, because nobody knew enough about it. They all thought I was talented and genuinely appreciated my attempts at bettering myself as an upcoming writer, but they didn’t know how I was going to do that. In high school somebody offered me a chance, but it was a little late; I had lost interest and became unenthused about the idea since, I figured, it was all such a big fuss. Publishing sounded like a secret club where nobody I knew was allowed in, and I was young and naive and wanted nothing more than to fit it. Even today, when I work in publishing, I have very mixed feelings about it – and I will talk about them in another post.

To keep things short(ish) and sweet here, what First Story are doing by giving students such opportunities is beautiful and I want to encourage you to get in touch with them if you’d like to participate in future events. Their focus on students who love reading and writing will surely shape many of their paths, whether they choose to pursue writing and/or publication or not. The confidence a child gains from having their work exposed and praised by others is enormous, and I can only hope that many more will benefit from such programmes. If you know a young writer in doubt, don’t let them doubt themselves for too long – it might be permanent.

In Praise of Blood and Noise

Converse C3/C4 Spring 2014

Southern Graphics
ISM & Online

The morning was only growing colder. The streets were still dark. Everything was helplessly quiet, unreal. He crawled down roads, staring, as if looking through a window; drenched with past and haunting images of days that now seemed to never have been. But the minutes wouldn’t stop.

He stood waiting in the icy dark, coughing. The chill of the night had entered him. The lamp by the bed was broken so he lay still in the calm darkness, counting the hours until dawn. There was a strange rage inside him and it was fascinating being so angry.

Then the morning came, with its pure air and the things that spoil it – like bicycles going past the train station, their parts creaking, as if on a mission to ease him into the day. He knew the storms would come, and he knew to always let them bend it. His rage was better than breaking. It was a gift.


These were dreams he shouldn’t have had. Nobody should ever have to clean up their mornings like that; but it was impossible to control them. They took place while he was awake, and they were incandescent; burning through him, radiating through him for days – they were, in a sense, the skeleton of all reality. They seemed the work of a sick man, a work of great patience and simplicity and sadness. They were his masterpiece. He knew he could never let another touch them.

But in the mornings, in his shower, in the walk out the door, as he reached for them, turned them around and wondered if, by any rearrangement of events, by any accident could they be slipped into real life, the whole concert fell apart in his hands like old newspaper. There was nothing tangible to stitch together, only memories of things that screamed in his dreams at night. If only he could pull it all out, long and connected like magicians’ scarves hidden in magicians’ sleeves. But there was nothing left but reality, and reality couldn’t give him what he wanted, and he didn’t want what reality was willing to give; so they began to ignore each other.


The early train started rocking along, rushing through villages. Rain was beating against the window. He sat in silence, going ahead only because of some sort of curiosity, to discover where it would all vanish. The world outside was no longer mysterious. There was nothing on the other side; there was no other side. He was living in hell and hell was all there was, daylight to midnight.

Hunched over his seat, listening to the rain, he thought of how what didn’t kill him only made it all much harder. What didn’t kill him kept him up all night. What didn’t kill him made him want to kill it; but he wasn’t all that brave. He sighed, feeling a moment of great loneliness rushing to meet him.

Then the train stopped, and The Day started.


When he left the office the clouds had melted like ice, the air was lucid and sweet, and the skies were unexpectedly freshened – all things that did not matter at all. He was battling monsters, pulling himself out of burning building. Back in his silent house, he would spend maddening hours inside mint green walls again, altering past dreams in order to form brighter future ones. He might as well start now.

Certain things he remembered exactly as they were and nothing could be done about them. These fragments entered him, able to part his flesh, a story of things that almost happened and made a world that almost did what he said and almost loved him back before the sunlight plunged everything into the darkness again. They were merely discoloured a bit by time. Most of them, though, had long since been transformed or rearranged to make his insomnia bearable – just like one alters his past memories to better deal with their real life.


Then the light changed and a new quality appeared in it, an intensity that meant aliveness had found a home. Somebody was keeping it from passing through with bold, brusque movements. Somebody was living out loud next to him. Somebody was still living out loud. He brushed his hair behind his ears and coughed hard; he knew he’d thrown something away and he was mean, but he was going in for one last chance at redemption.

A fiction for which a place already existed in his heart turned into fact. Images of her were flashing in front of him, dripping like extra paint onto extra walls. She was a cup of universe, dancing, turning in the orange light with both hands full of life, almost spilling herself laughing and dancing and throwing her head back, letting her hair shake down her shoulders – but never quite.

The future didn’t surprise him – much of it existed already, but she did not exist until then, and she was magnetising and intoxicating. She had quiet and soft-eyes, but her manner was lively and decisive. Equal parts old soul and starry-eyed child, something about her was straightforward and reassuring. It seemed to him that she was the paint brush and the world was her painting.  He knew what she was, and he was ready to fall to his knees like a believer.


It was by glances, exhausted glances from across a crowded place that he discovered her, the flashes of her eyes through the night promising to be his newest, most haunting dream. He confirmed her only in the silences that came after, when they sat next to each other with their arms touching and their legs overlapping. He saw the tender way she touched things and knew that she, too, was soft and alive; sometimes a still day, and sometimes a hurricane. Her power was flickering, sometimes present and sometimes not.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ he looked into her eyes and said to himself, ‘but I’ll dive into you; I’ll get to know you, from your lightest shades to your darkest.’

His curiosity was going down the rabbit hole.


The book was in her lap.

‘What is it about?’ he asked.

‘It’s a brief guide to recreational time travel,’ she answered, and her voice had a sensitive, magical, calm quality. ‘I keep it with me always. I must never be without it.’

He smiled; she didn’t. He fell for it, hard. How she seemed to believe her own fantasies eliminated all noise and blocked all escape routes. He knew he’d hold the image in his head for a long time after the moment had passed. It was his own warm, still thriving with life kind of memory to preserve now, as if he had collected an object he loved dearly and grown too fond of it to put it away.

‘I like your stories,’ he said, flickering through it.

She weaved words like a vivid tapestry in her stories – the kind one thinks of when it’s breakfast and they’re standing in the shower for over an hour, bar of soap in their hand, soaking in the light, wishing they could crawl inside a second skin and relive them reborn, wild-eyes, free.

‘Good, you’ll likely be in one,’ she replied, struggling up, smiling strangely.

She said this quietly but to him it sounded like the ticking of a bomb. She now looked like the edge of a map, the place where things are uncertain and dangerous and make little sense. ‘Here be dragons,’ her face read, and he wanted to be in her every town, on her every street.

Alive. Alive was what she was, through her running, gushing, swirling blood and amongst all the noises of the world.


Clinging to her arm he followed, along the dark roads. It was night for many miles, but she insisted to walk. Then she put one hand to the knob and he kept toward the sound of her voice, wild-eyed and sleepless, going up the stairs of the building, in her rooms, amongst her drawings and all her things. He liked existing with her; everything else was sealed up, labeled ‘not now’. He wanted to swim in the way she made him feel, until his clothes were soaked and it would all go straight into his bones, altering his essence and – who knew? – his reality. Anything, but the sighing back to reality. Her, her, her.

He hoped the intro would read ‘This has been created inside her walls, last Wednesday, in memory of life’. In the first paragraph, she would put her head in his lap and closer her eyes, like lying in the middle of an empty highway and listening to the road, and she would like his voice and he could hear her breathing. He smiled; he knew there was no fiction without fact.

‘You sat on my counter, on my couch, on the piano bench. You asked me to play for you. You called me your “girl” and said every song was about us. I was tired and you wanted to stay up and talk. You laid with me on the couch, our faces almost touching and told me you were in love with me. Then you took off your gold-rimmed glasses and slept beside me and held my hand.’

He shook his head; not now. Reality and dream couldn’t blur together tonight.


‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

They want you to love the whole world but you won’t, you want it narrowed down to one fleshy man who knows what to do with his hands, with your body. A man with almond eyes and a long jaw and a serenely contemplative, kindly mischievous air, who cuts you open until your light streams out between the stitches, no matter how soft, how scar-free you think you are.’

She narrowed her eyes, much to his despair.

‘Nothing,’ he said, cold sweat streaming down his spine.

He could smell them and hear them and touch them and see them. He wanted to cry out loud. The dreams were coming to him.

She came closer, too.

‘Talk to me,’ she said, gently touching his leg. ‘I will listen, and I will write it all down. You and I will make a great story out of this.’

to be continued.

On Escapism


For a long time this blog was called Escapism. I still remember coming up with the title and believing it to be painfully perfect. I was thrilled for I had finally found a word to summarise what writing and publishing stories meant to me: a way to zone out and not feel guilty about my incapacity to be bothered with the life around me, because I was only escaping to write, after all. How productive, I thought. Look at me, I said to myself. One by one I began to dismantle and dismiss everything the world was made of. All I wanted from it was to let me escape from it. And so, when Escapism was born, I felt like I had finally found my place. It was right here.

Fast forward to now and I no longer crave escapism of any kind. One day comes, and I hope it does, when you look around and realise there is nothing left to escape from. There are no more monsters under the bed, only broken pieces to be put together with love and care. And that requires me to be present. It requires me to stop escaping. The world is not the dragon anymore; only I can be that now. It is a good, solid foundation, and whatever I make of it on the top. I know that, if I continue to escape it I will never make it mine. What my world needs today is not rebellion, it is presence of mind, fire of soul and all of my intensity, poured into it with love and respect for it, which really it, ultimately, myself.

This blog is no longer a means to escapism, because what I have come to realise is how, in my futile attempts to escape, I only ended up slipping through my own fingers. I need bloody-minded, strong, intense this time — and, of course, a space to pour my imagination into.

Thank you for staying.

There’s Nowhere To Go

I wrote this after a 15 year old girl tried to kill herself swallowing pills the other night, for reasons that tormented me too. She is fine now. I believe the text explains the rest. The details are different for each and every one of us, but that doesn’t make us any less alike.

It was around the age when people start to become interesting that she discovered how interesting she had grown up to be herself. There was, of course, still plenty left to figure out  what truly made her happy, what truly made her sad, what truly made her — but there was plenty of time left for fine-tuning the self, too. She was still too young to doubt herself. Life was vanilla, general knowledge, and the relaxing rhythms of her little world.

She liked the form she was taking. The lack of a solid understanding, or a clue, of the quiet works of her mind, refining her tirelessly day and night, only helped. She had not started to think of the importance of function yet, and was not going to do that for a while. Nobody should take such serious matters into their hands so early in life, after all, because one’s mind changes from sunrise to sunset, and takes an entirely different shape by dawn again  and this is precisely what makes little people like her interesting.

But she was already adventurous in herself, and found new ideas taking shape around each and every corner of her being. Mornings were like Christmas days, over and over again. She was discovering new faces in the mirror, new gestures and new thoughts that seemed to have popped out of nowhere, in her sleep. As if touched with fire and filled with wild hope, she was waiting to see in what ways she was going to change next. It was going to happen, no doubt; it was happening already. The days were burning. She was like hot metal. She was like rain water. She was like the wind. It filled her with love for life and the wonderful things it did to her, and she filled life back with beauty. Soft magic was all around.

There was no rush yet. All the little things will eventually add up to something enormous, she thought, convinced that everything was simply her becoming. There was no big plan. She just kept blooming, and the unexpectedness of it added to how interesting it all was. She liked playing with the present, holding it in her palms, in the sun, in the shades of her own shadows. There was no need to invent other worlds yet, for the one she was part of held all the miracles. She could not imagine something she’d not, eventually, find.

Beautiful surprises were waiting for her around each and every corner of the world, too. If she could have splashed the brightness of those days onto a white canvas, the passionate reds and oranges would have burned its edges, and the cool turquoise would have run, still and strong, all across it. It would have been a wildly beautiful painting, changing from one hot minute to the next; and so, she made a promise to herself. She said, I’ll take you thereas soon as I figure out how to hold the colours down, and know what to paint. That would have been a beautiful painting too, no doubt; perhaps a little less wild, once the colours found their place.

She was fascinated with her own nature, if not a little too much, for she kept growing, changing, turning into new people too often, too quickly, too suddenly. Keeping up was beginning to feel like a struggle and her enthusiasm — a burden, her very first one. There was still too much left to explore. The novelty came and stayed, layers upon layers of new wonders, bending her back and hunching her shoulders. Like Sisyphus, she kept pushing upwards and like his rock, it all kept coming back down to her.

She craved  all the precious and astonishing things she discovered, and taking it all in was proving to be impossible in real time. As you grow up you need to start being your own parent, she then thought, and didn’t let herself out of sight anymore — not for one night. There were no such things as sneaking out, running away, escaping. She was slowly but oh, so surely, becoming her own master; her own puppeteer and her very own puppet, too. She learned the inner workings of her mind. No part of it stayed untouched by the sharp knife of her consciousness for too long. It all had to be mastered until it became lyrical. Bringing excellence out of herself was a mission she knew she embarked on for life. There was nowhere else to go, anyway.

Standing in front of the mirror for hours on end she watched herself marvelling, recording everything. She couldn’t help it. Like a little artist, she could only record; get a good feel for the moment’s scenery and emotional tone, and add it to her catalogue of things to know. Her hands were trembling and her heart was racing with emotion, feeling spectacularly alive. The idea of such perfect control seemed like a creature in the corner of a dream, drawing closer, then vanishing, then reappearing, never less appealing than the time before. She was a lonely highway, going straight into the great unknown. She was also the only one on the road, driving with the speed of happiness, she believed, for she felt smart and wise for learning how to drive the reckless out of her mind. Nobody saw, but she didn’t need to be seen; what she needed was to feel, and then to keep.

She learned how to stop her shakes and push her demons down when she was scared, and use numbness as a silencer for cynicism. It was a rare and wise and divine thing to do, she believed. She possessed a beautiful quality over everyone else. She was winning herself over; she was winning.

But she lost, too. What was she, the master of herself, to do with her wildness anymore? Her wildness had to be tamed, or it would crave sunlight and novelty. She couldn’t take in any more things from life; life had given her so much that she was already filled up to the top. Then life kept giving, and giving, and she kept shrinking in front of it. She was controlling, possessive with her gifts. They were choking her, and stimulating her, and burned like wild fire. She had become a spark.

A pneumonic hurt lived quietly in her lungs and hid in her breathing and whispered in her ears at times. You’ve been real. You’ve been lovely. You’re one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever been to. I kneel down to the lashings of yellow and tell them: ’She’s the one.’ I will take you, and I will love you, again. But she could not crack her soul wide open anymore, like the little girl used to when she thought she had become interesting and wonderous. Whatever the outside world was made of that fascinated her, it was now shut out completely. She took only what was necessary, and erased the door when her masterpiece was complete. What little was left of her wildness was too silent to be heard, and hurt too little to damage her creation. Nothing could affect her, no revelation, no crime. She was like a sad story, like leaves in the street. She repeated herself like a song.

Depression is when you can’t feel at all. Anxiety is when you can feel too much. It is hard to tell if she felt overwhelmed or underwhelmed. It was hard to tell what she was, but interesting? Yes, as interesting as trouble can be, and for just as long.

How To Be Your Own Story


The story underneath the story isn’t always pretty. You have to make up all the words yourself — the way they taste, the way they sound in the air — and twist them in such a manner that one can no longer tell where they came from. When they ask, you tell them you read a lot as a kid, then you let them poke at your thoughts to give them better clarity and fill in their doubts about the meaning. They don’t need to know how you encouraged yourself to leave the mind and step onto paper, with all your words held tightly in your fragile arms, careful not to drop one and walk all over it with your dirty, shaky feet. No. They don’t need to know the words are you. You can’t have people thinking you are as strange and absurd as art. You must tell them you were inspired by books and talks and general knowledge, and carry on with your life as if art was merely an insignificant slice of it, and the first time you tried it you ate it whole.

The process can be excruciatingly slow. No fire from your bones makes it out into the world for a while, or not enough fire goes in. In the center of it all you find yourself completely alone, your existence becoming clouded, strange. They talk in low voices about you. You seem calmer, more assured, they say. The spark in your eyes has died out, they whisper. Parts of you are burning. The party is in your honour, but no one was invited. You hear them through windows partly open, damp air leaking on your face. You hear them through thick walls. Sunlight pours across your skin, your shadow flat on the bedroom door. You have soft eyes and long hair that you wear loose and keep stroking smoothly as you listen. There is shame. There is fear. You can’t go on for too long or you’ll end up washed out of memory, almost out of existence. But then there is dizzying freedom. Your heart beats messily everywhere but outside yourself, in their hands; in your mouth, ears, nose, and toes. It’s a delicious sensation. Peace for you will come later, when your imagination isn’t so vivid, and your spark has lit up so much inside you that it had to die out, or you would have bursted into flames.

This is the map of my heart. My name is the capital, and this up here is the moon. This is the sun. I’m still naming the stars after people I know, but I change the first letters and stir together the remaining ones. This way nobody can connect the dots, and I get to feel like religion in high heels when they praise my creation. I am at the center of emptiness, outside the lines. The sounds separate themselves out here. Everything seems purer, easier to define when you’re undefined. I define. I burn the forests – here, and here – down. I am the forests. These cities are made out of graffiti, rock & roll and tree-lined streets. At night headlights shine in all directions, and I spill dark blue ink and sprinkle star all over them. Boys wrap their fingers around necks of beers and girls standing by the windows in yellow towels, holding hands and breaths. When the day comes my sun splashes it like water, and the brilliance spreads among people. They go for long drives under freshened skies and have orange juice and toast parked in the sunlight, breadcrumbs falling into their laps. There’s a thing in my stomach about telling a brief history of my heart without having to confess anything. My face no longer has the helplessness of someone who is no longer believed in, my hands are no longer an afterthought. I know how to make things come true, advancing upon them like holy cities, pushing aside everything that is not them. My dreams take place when I am awake and it is marvellous, because they dictate my life. Imagination is so integral to both my writing and my reality.

This is how my story goes on, with wide, soft moments growing outwards, at the edges of the map of my heart like an oil stain. They resound in me like waves, so powerful that I can hear them beneath the cliffside. I can’t resist them — they are strange and full of promises, temptation at its finest. They come down like hammers, and ask me to write them down with a gentle hand. They allow me to set my story in order. I grin. I am invincible. Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I take in how wild this is and how addicted I am to it. Isolation makes life feel cinematic. I can feel my heart begin to harden and my words begin to form on the tip of my tongue.

In between the spaces where no one roams is where I find my tranquility, and inspiration follows like the loyalest of dogs. The quality of stillness gets me high, and the intensity it holds builds up until it turns into the right words. From here on, it is easy. I put everything in a cone of light, then pick my pieces. This is the place where everything can start to begin; I start to write, they start to see me. Art blends with life once again. I can breathe easy. I know this will happen again. Biting my lips, I try to steady myself.

Picture this: there is an empty space next to you in the backseat. You make it the shape of everything you need. Now you say hello. This is you at your best, commonly known as your strength, but you haven’t been properly introduced yet – so you don’t know what it is, and you don’t know it is yours.

Then: you walk to work, heels echoing on the pavement, still a bit of warmth from the bed clinging to you. You take a seat on the bus and fall asleep to the sound of traffic. The night before you were at your desk, begging it to come back from the window, take off its wet clothes and come sit with you by the fire. You craved its hand around your waist and a new story over a glass of red wine. You were tired, but couldn’t fall asleep, so you waited and you waited until dawn. You feel frustrated. It was only just starting to reveal itself to you, and you couldn’t grab it and make it yours yet.

Or: a beautiful man keeps smiling at you like there’s no tomorrow. He has perfect teeth — square, white, even. He becomes your lover and soon you are making out in the corner booth of a bar. The light is dim and smoky, and he lets go of his secrets into your mouth, and you learn what his thoughts taste like and what he is afraid of, things you thought you had guessed before you first sat down and started writing, but surprise — you knew nothing then, which is why you couldn’t write. It is only when he gently bites your neck and you open your eyes and see him in the near-darkness and your heart falls out of you that you understand you had only just scratched the surface before him. Steam rises from both your cups at once, and you reach for your cigarettes, and even though your world doesn’t make sense anymore, when he says, ‘Look, baby, these tornadoes are for you’ you let them pass you, because there is nothing better than finally meeting somebody who finishes your sentences for you, especially when that somebody is you.



“The world is not made up of atoms; it’s made up of stories.”
­— Muriel Rukeyser

‘A week? A whole damn week?’ she complained.

That wasn’t what she had planned for. Then again, it wasn’t her who planned it in the first place. Rolling her eyes at the sudden, unpleasant thought, she walked slowly across the room, towards the window. Staring out it absently, she wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the unease settling in.

‘Ah, she talks! A week indeed,’ Tomás nodded in agreement in the back. ‘Well…’

Her new place was clean and cold – like a cell. You could feel like a queen if you lost your bad thoughts, she lied to herself. 

‘Well, what?’

‘A week up to a month – or more, depending on your progress.’

‘What?’ she snapped. ‘Do you want me to lose my mind?’

‘No, miss. That’s why you’re here, remember?’ he said, and she could tell the sarcasm in his voice.

She hated the mischievous little smile in his eyes and on his lips, almost as much as she hated the cabin.


‘Excuse me?’

‘It’s Kara, not miss,’ she said, loud and clear. ‘That’s my name. Surely you should know that.’

‘Ah. Kara. Got it,’ he laughed. ‘Well, Kara, at least you’re not muttering swear words to yourself anymore. It’s good to see you’re opening up. We’ll soon have more chances to talk. For now I just need to know – no, actually I need you to know – that you’re settling in just fine and you’re willing to continue with the treatment.’

She puffed. Treatment was a terrible word for a vacation.

Please, let it be just like a vacation.

‘So you’re coming back, like… what, every day?’

Tomás gave her another funny look, but otherwise ignored her. He put his leather gloves back on and took the car keys out of his coat’s inner pocket without a word. Time to go it was.

Oh no.

‘Uhm?’ she mumbled, looking up.

‘Kara,’ he smiled back.

It nearly made her smile too.


What if I don’t write anything?

‘Good. And good luck!’ he said sharply and shut the door behind him.

Ah, yes, that she would need… she pressed her forehead against the window and watched him walk to the car. It was a beautiful day, sunny but frosty cold. The sun shining over the mountains of snow, the snow not melting one inch. Ah, the fine ironies of nature, she thought, all the blood draining from her face.

She sighed. Day 0. Seven more to go.

My name is Kara Kohen and I’m here against my will, were going to be her first words on paper. They made me do it, was going to be the ending. It was dramatic enough to amuse her while her heart beat in her chest, loud and fearful. It was also real.

I // Introduction to the New World

In the New World nobody had tragic stories lingering in their minds for years. Neuroscientists had discovered a variety of methods to eliminate intrusive thoughts, whether random or recurring, and all one needed to do was ask for whichever they preferred. Some were dirty but harmless psychological tricks, while others were borderline cruel. After the days of pure modern optimism had their say it was now the era of science, and nobody seemed to be winning momentum like those who – sometimes literally, although uncommon – changed people’s minds. Getting the butterflies in one’s belly to fly in formation, as the saying goes, was insured and, most importantly, non-stigmatized. The un-put-downable thrillers, the gore movies, the typical post-romantic feminist music albums had all been cleared from the shelves and replaced with motivational combinations of sunrises and texts. This was, of course, unnecessary, as everybody was happy to go through a mind cleansing process every few months – or, if they were exceptionally strong characters, every few years – but anything that served the new system was welcomed.

Kara wasn’t. Expelled from every social circle since she entered her teenage years because of her constant refusal to see a specialist, she quickly became a misfit. One by one, everybody left to get better, and when they came back they avoided her so-called bad energies at all costs. On average, most of the people she knew had a mental cleanse every year. She heard that sometimes, they only talk to you. Other times, the whole process is more like surgery. She didn’t really know, and she didn’t really care either. She loathed the idea of an even remotely painful process that would expose layer after layer of one’s memories, dreams and fears, making them vulnerable, ashamed and, although nobody ever mentioned it, dreading a next time. Not telling a soul, she was secretly proud of herself and her bad mind. To her, it had always meant that she was bright, creative and resourceful, and she never would have traded her imaginative nature for a brain bubble bath.

People would wonder, laugh or, if a little braver than most, address her the usual question Penny for your thought? whenever she had an overly contemplative look on her face. In time she learned to ignore them, but occasionally, on the bus ride home or in a corner shop across town, she would say something like Yeah, I’m thinking of death. She would then stand still and watch people’s faces go blue before they walked away in silence, looking over their shoulders at the girl with the bad heart. It was an easy way to amuse herself, but an equally easy one to grow even more cynical, judgmental and dismissive of the world she was, liked it or not, part of.

Mysterious, ambiguous and often defiant, Kara held on to her right to think her own thoughts for a long time. Her friends were inside her head, made-up of fragments of her imagination and living the kind of stories that would have given anyone the chills, because nobody lived great stories in the New World. She never talked, wrote or mentioned them in any way, and was never going to; but the New World wasn’t permissive of outcasts.

But after years and years of saying no to the system, the system decided it was time to win her case. They tracked her down, invited her to a clinic and, one sunny winter afternoon, she was made the friendliest offer available for the troubled ones like her – people who went years seeming to believe they were born with some kind of super powers, and the right to keep them.

The whole process of signing her up bored her to death. She was being forced to join the programme the following week, and despite knowing that it was a lost battle, she resisted the idea to the very end. Fidgeting in her chair, she looked restless and unhappy, which in itself made the old lady at the desk uncomfortable. People were always happy and at ease in the New World, and when they weren’t they still put on smiles on their faces, went to the nearest clinics, and willingly signed themselves up for treatment. Because nobody was forced to do it – unless, of course, they decided not to.

‘Why are your clinics on every corner when I have indigestion far more often than depression?’ she asked bluntly, playing with a pencil sharpener in the shape of a globe.

The old lady stopped filling in the form she was working on and looked up at Kara through her long lashes.

‘Baby girl, you mustn’t say that word again. It’s very ugly and sad, and you have no idea what it’s like to –’

‘What, I haven’t been around for long enough to know what sadness feels like? Of course I know what it feels like. I haven’t been given the treatment yet. But nobody asked me a thing about my right to feel my sadness.’

Her mother grabbed her hand, closed tightly, made into a fist.

‘Kara, please, behave baby. Miss Rosie here is only trying to help. It isn’t her who created the system.’

Miss Rosie quickly glanced at them both once more, then shook her head in the most disapproving manner and returned to her paperwork.

Kara turned to her mother and tilted her head, begging with her big, brown eyes. It made her mother smile, but nod back in miss Rosie’s direction.

‘She is right, you know,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t know much about sadness, and you really should stop talking about it like you do. And, to answer your question, no, you haven’t been around for long enough to understand everything. The New World is so wisely designed that it can not possibly give birth to such feelings. Now, …’

Kara closed her eyes and pressed her lips into a flat line. She wasn’t depressed, it was true; she just wasn’t in for all the niceties the New World demanded from her. After all, the world had done nothing for her other than try to monitor her every move. It was only her own world that she could rely on, and that made her oblivious to the one outside where all there was to see was an unattractive craze for obsessive-compulsive smiling, spreading far and wide. The New World was, behind all its clever advertising, tricky, controlling and as dismissive of people like Kara as she was of it. A girl only has so much energy to give, and she had made her choice a long time ago.

‘There you go,’ miss Rosie said gently, handing them a file. ‘You must go and get better, Kara. We need to keep this beautiful world we live in just the way it is. Bad energies only do harm and we’re in for the good stuff, aren’t we, baby girl?’


‘I don’t understand,’ she cried on the way home, her mother urging her to keep quiet. ‘How do they know I have bad thoughts, bad dreams, bad… energies, whatever the hell you call them? Have I ever harmed anybody? Have I ever pushed my ideas down their throats –’

Her mother clasped her hand, gently, and looked around. The few people on the bus returned quickly to their books, phones or conversations.

‘No baby, you haven’t, but you’ve got to understand. For the first time ever the world as we know it really is at its most peaceful. It can be a bad world, you know that, and they’re only trying to prevent the history repeating itself. I’m sure nobody believes that you would do any harm, but it’s always better to prevent than to –’

‘Yes, I know it can be a bad world,’ she interrupted, ‘and I can’t help wondering if I’m the only person my age who does.’

Her mother sighed.

‘Sometimes I think that history should be hidden,’ she confessed. ‘Look at what it has done to you.’

Kara remembered the story she had played in her mind to sleep the night before. She wondered if, even without having had somebody like Jade Montgomery in their lives, other people somehow knew things too.

Maybe human nature can never be tamed, and maybe they can’t take it and choose to anaesthetize themselves. Well, I wish them well, if well is what they like. I like keeping my eyes open and looking; inwards.

‘What they’re offering you is the mildest form of therapy, Kara.’

‘But I don’t need therapy, mother.’

‘Good, then,’ she smiled her sweet smile, as if all her worries were gone, but Kara knew better. ‘You go there and relax; just refresh your mind. Better safe than sorry, you know what they say.’

Ah, her mother loved sayings, didn’t she?

Better bad than safe and sorry together, she rolled her eyes once more.

‘Fine, I’ll go, but only for you. I know you’re having a difficult time explaining my behaviour to everybody you know. I’d like to take that off your mind.’

As from mine, I’m taking nothing off.

‘Oh, baby, I’m sure you’re going to come back ten times more blissful than you feel right now! It will be just like a detox, you’ll see.’

‘Only if ignorance is bliss, mother…’

‘Shut up,’ her mother urged. ‘Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. Otherwise you wouldn’t have so much to be grateful for.’

I’m not, but who can tell that to their mother?


To say that a rather cynical approach to life was Kara’s only problem would be a lie. She knew that, her mother knew that and, moments after meeting her, everybody knew that. From autism to ADHD, Kara had been diagnosed with every possible mental almost-illness since she was a toddler. In the end, they had to settle for objectivity; Kara was a mighty fine young lady who, generally speaking, didn’t give a damn about the reality of the moment. She had an otherworldly look on her face, was clumsy, had troubles focusing, and often took forever to complete even the simplest task if not under strict supervision. Her parents had to accept early on that she was chronically dissatisfied and stubborn as a mule, but knew that in the New World such people were always going to be seen as threats to the social order. As time went by and they noticed little to no change, they tried to hide their daughter’s behaviour as much as they could – but it wasn’t easy, because Kara had to attend school just like every other child. Unlike them she often came home frustrated with her own inability to do the simplest thing; and it became obvious, although it stayed a family secret, of course, that Kara wasn’t slow because she was stupid, she was slow because she couldn’t be in two places at once.

Ever since we are born, the way we are talked to becomes the way we learn to talk to ourselves; but some of us cross the line. Kara bulldozed down the fence. She would talk to herself all the time as a little girl, sometimes making her parents blush, other times making them gasp in horror. Her mind wasn’t every little girl’s mind; she had lost interest in fairy tales by age six, and instead mumbled fragments of what seemed to be a deeply internalized diary full of unpleasant stories. Her characters suffered deeply from things that were unthinkable, from being lied to or stolen from to being beaten or abused to death. As a teenager she looked slightly more troubled than the rest, often complaining that real time felt like slow motion to her, like boundaries, like limitations. Kara grew up to be a beautiful, yet bookish and tormented girl indeed. To say that she willingly decided to turn into a rebel would be, no doubt, false, so her family never stopped blaming it on the books her grandmother kept on the quiet in the attic.

Until her library was burned down, Jade Montgomery kept it secret from the rest of the family. Every afternoon, after school, Kara would go over for lunch and to have her grandmother, a former teacher, help her with homework; but homework never got done at her grandmother’s house. Kara would sneak into the attic after lunch and read until late, when it was time for her to either go back home or go to sleep. Her grandmother never said a word about it. She was the only person who understood Kara’s deliciously clever, unquiet spirit, and agreed to help her solidify her thinking with the truth, and the forbidden books – the only instruments that showed her the world in a less unilateral approach. ‘Don’t let others tell you who you are. And if you do, at least don’t believe them,’ was her grandmother’s secret advice for her.

Up there, as a child, she learned about the monstrous things that the humanity took part in, and silent terror descended on her mind every night as she recalled them. Unable to sleep, she used the books she read as kindling and her imagination as the fire starter to fall in love with her own monsters night after night. She made up stories that went on and on long after her grandmother and her books were no longer around. The parents of the New World never mentioned the monsters under the bed to their children, but in her Kara’s case, they would have seemed completely harmless compared to the ones living inside her.

She was grateful, but only for her grandmother who furnished her formative years with books, and for the little girl who hungrily opened her eyes to a world far from her sight. She lost her grandmother early, but she would never lose the little girl.

II // Introduction to Madness

On a first note, Tomás smells good, and all of this is new: the smell of oil, man cologne, hot coffee, the scenery. I have never been up in the mountains before. I have never been anywhere at all, as a matter of fact. Have I missed out on life, being so out of tune with it?A slight hint of regret washed over her like cold water. Does he even like me? Other than reciting the safety regulations he hasn’t said much and hasn’t looked at me once. I know it would be unprofessional but I am an attractive girl sitting in the back of his car after all, and would like to be comforted about this whole thing. Maybe he only dates the happy-happy-joy-joy type, which would be unfortunate, but I couldn’t blame him – after all what else is there? I’ve never met anybody like me, and if I ever have, they must all be brainwashed by now. It just so happens that, despite being who he is, Tomás at least looks my type – witty, sarcastic and cynical. I wouldn’t need him to say much if he could only keep that look on his face.

Tomás drove carefully through the bumpy piles of snow on the road and Kara continued to daydream about it being an abduction, but knowing that the term didn’t even exist anymore outside the Old World’s books. Around midday they arrived at the wooden cabin that was going to be her new home for a while.

‘What do you think?’ he asked cheerfully, finally turning to her for the first time.

Kara had her back pressed against the door, spinning the ring on her finger to exhaustion.

‘The same as Pascal – that all of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone,’ she muttered between gritted teeth.

He stared at her, completely impassive.

‘You will be absolutely fine. I’ll make sure of that.’

His voice put a smirk on her face, but was far from enough to change her mood.

‘Besides, I thought that’s exactly why they sent you here.’


‘Because you only want to be left alone.’

Kara thought about it for a second. Not about what he said, but about the way he said it. People were cautious and optimistic in the New World, but Tomás seemed frank and straightforward. She liked it.

‘If they pay you to make a show, here,’ she sat up and leaned forward in his direction, ‘take my hand, dear sir, and show me this enchanted castle that you own.’

‘I don’t own it,’ he smiled, showing her to put her hand down, ‘and if you want to… hate somebody,’ he continued carefully, as if testing the word, weighing up its nuances, its meaning, ‘hate the game, not the player. Now stop working on your unhappiness and get out of the car.’

Without another word, they climbed out of the car with bags in their hands. Moment later she watched him trying the key in the door, hurriedly and carelessly, and secretly congratulated herself for being a brave, daring girl; as she should be, if nobody tried to mess with her head.

‘You go first, princess,’ he held the door open and showed her inside.

‘Why, thank you,’ she mumbled, yet making he sure he could hear her. ‘I’m sure I’ll be happy as hell here, on my own. Actually, I take the sarcasm back –’


‘I will be happy here, on my own,’ she hissed, emphasising the last three words.

He whipped his head around, tight-lipped, but let her explore the room in her own time. Kara kept walking around in circles. The cabin consisted of an open-plan kitchen and living room, and a small bedroom with a bathroom in the back. There was a massive oak wood desk next to the window in the living room, with plenty of notebooks and pens lying around. She sighed sadly. Everything looked welcoming, but she had an awful feeling about being left there alone.

‘You’d better get used to it, you know –’

Ah, you again. Not so unaffected, then? I can’t wait to understand what’s with you too, she thought, still inspecting the old wooden furniture.

‘– you’ll be here for a week.’

A week? A whole damn week?’ she complained.

‘Ah, she talks! A week indeed,’ Tomás nodded invigorated in the back. ‘Well…’


Kara had no idea how long for she was going to be there or what she was supposed to do. Nobody was told much at the beginning other than that they would leave the programme feeling – no, being – new people. All she knew was that although under supervision, she was expected to be alone for at least one week and write during the whole stay. The treatment would not end there, but it was the first step towards her getting better. According to the New Theories, the only lasting changes were identity-based, and therefore she was expected to develop a new system of values and beliefs and rid herself of the old ones. Before the inside-out approach could work, however, she had to go through the cleanse – putting everything inside her head on paper, dismissing it as her identity, and destroying all evidence. People thought of the process as a nice symbol for a fresh start, but were always puzzled when the authorities insisted with the process being closely monitored by specialists. It’s just paper, they would say, and the doctors and supervisors would shake their heads and roll their eyes and make them go through with it as if their written stories were the biggest threat to mankind. But people didn’t wonder much in the New World. They would do what they were told, then go home and love their families, water their plants and repeat positive affirmations to exhaustion – or, in the troubled ones’ cases, to disbelief; but even obvious failure was a taboo.

Next, she was meant to see Tomás regularly for a period of 4 to 12 weeks and present him new sets of writings. If they continued to have a negative tone, Kara would then either be sent back or asked to complete an entirely different kind of treatment; what kind, she didn’t know. Everything stayed mainly private. People were rarely banned from discussing their experiences, but were thought to have such respect for the system that they would keep its methods to themselves. In reality, however, just as Kara suspected, people were ashamed of the things brought out of them during the course of their treatments, and even more ashamed of their doubts and demons catching up with them again after some time. In a world where bad itself was a bad word, discussing personal drama and the monsters discovered in one’s mind were embarrassing subjects. It was the kind of thing that one was damned if they didn’t do, and damned if they discussed in too much detail – like sexuality in the Old World, but then again, nobody knew much of the Old World and nobody had any desire to find out.

Kara wiped her nose on her sleeve beneath crisp, clean white sheets, feeling unable to put up a fight for the first time. They told her she could be anything, so she became an independent girl – then she grew up and they made it clear what the parameters were. Now she suddenly couldn’t stick to anything familiar anymore to help her feel comfortable and grounded. She didn’t want Tomás to sense her fear, but she couldn’t hide it from herself.

After all, life was terrible at the edge of uncertainty for somebody who grew up in the New World.By taking her away from it all and not disclosing anything about what her week in the woods was going to be like, they snatched her breadcrumb trail and it was scary. She was going to make some noise about this when she got back, in spite of the people, the system and the gods. People deserved to know what they were in for. False hope destroys quicker than despair. Nobody ever told her how this went, and now she didn’t even know if and when Tomás would be back until the end of the week. Much as she disliked the New World, it was still the only world she knew outside of herself, and she liked the comfort of having something to go back to every now and then. She loved her family, hard, and she also liked another thing or two out there – neon lights, glasses of wine, noises and words and body heat, sharp teeth and laughter, fast cars, grey areas, stubbornness, puddles of mud, breezy weather, cold fingers, street lights, dark curtains, dawns, tenderness. Despite its boring transparency the New World still held enough materials for her to make up story after strange story, and she wanted to hold on to that for the rest of her life.

But she was going to write starting the next day, if that was what they wanted, and then go back home to write some more – about her experience, about Tomás, about what writing feels like when you don’t even want to talk. She once found a page ripped from some old newspaper from the Old World in between her grandmother’s books, and she read the article hungrily. It was an interview with an author, and even after all those years she could still remember bits of it: Enigmatic writer whose dark, unsettling stories drag the past out into the light and create powerful visual images in the minds of the audience; A good story acts as a Trojan horse. The act of telling it is almost like giving a gift to an audience, and they do not even realize that you have packed it full of messages and values until they are already hooked and hanging on your every pause, waiting to hear what happens; and If you are lucky enough not to experience too much conflict on a day-to-day basis, or if you are in an environment where warmth expressions are viewed with suspicion, telling a story is a way to show your audience that you have both in you.

Kara closed her eyes. She could do all that. The only thing she never could was ask somebody why her grandmother kept that article, but then she could never ask about her grandfather without her family making faces either, so it wasn’t very hard to guess things. She simply assumed that the New World got rid of all the misfits before the new ones were born with rage, boredom – rage spread thin, what else? – and stories flowing freely and wildly through their veins. Thanking the old man for passing on good genes, she got up and took one last sip of her after-dinner coffee. It was time to go get a breath of fresh air.

For hours, she didn’t dare check the door in case it was locked. What would have been the point in locking her door when mountains, rocks and snows surrounded her she didn’t know, but she was afraid.

As she finally stepped into the cold night air and looked up the house, she became aware of how quiet the world, the real world was up there. It wasn’t the place for her. On the other side there were new feet, and she would go there, crawl there if need be, when this was over. Her mind was the refuge. This was a small war.

Sat parked in front of the house was Tomás, watching her closely. Kara blushed when she saw him, but quickly made up her mind to go to him. Intimidating as he seemed, Tomás was nothing more than one of them after all, and Kara knew how to handle them. As she got closer to the car she could distinguish his silhouette through the fogged up window. She smiled, waved and finally put a big grin on her face and waited for him to open the door for her to climb inside; only he didn’t.

What is it with you, Tomás?

‘It’s the professional way to deal with patients outside of normal working hours,’ he said to her, back inside. ‘I was here to observe and take notes; if you were going to come to me because you needed something, I was going to let you do it yourself.’

Despite his serious tone, Kara sensed sarcasm and playfulness, but decided against mentioning it. It was too early for familiarities.

‘Observe… whether or not I’d be tempted to go off wandering?’

‘You wrote anything today, then?’ he changed the subject.

She grabbed an orange from his bag, thanking him with her eyes for bringing something good to eat.

‘I didn’t know I was supposed to. Today doesn’t even count as part of the… treatment, does it?’

‘No, of course not. I was simply curious to know whom I’m dealing with before… well, before finding out eventually, I suppose.’

‘Well, here I am,’ she said. ‘I don’t need to write to tell you who I am; or for you to tell who I am.’

Tomás smiled condescendingly.

‘Listen, miss… Kara, we are not where we are now for me to get to know you better. My job is to –’

‘Bring me oranges to pass the time and persuade me to be your after midnight writer, indeed.’ she smiled sweetly. ‘You have to admit, this whole thing has a certain romantic element to it.’

Ah, so what if it’s too early, he’s making me do it.

Tomás stood up, visibly uncomfortable with her attitude.

No, wait!

‘You know, Kara,’ he said under his breath, ‘believe it or not, I have monsters inside my head too; sometimes they sound just like you.’

‘You have… what do you mean monsters sound like me?’ she snapped, taken by surprise, in a high-pitched voice.

‘Too daring. Annoyingly so.’


‘Is intimidating me part of your job?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes but not taking them off of him. ‘How do you know what’s in my head?’

‘Sometimes,’ he replied, and a subtle smile, less condescending this time, formed on his lips. ‘To answer your second question, for start, you are here,’ he laughed, but then quickly took back his professional posture and straightened his coat. ‘These are all matters I can’t discuss with you now. I hope you enjoy the food, and find the time and the inspiration to write tomorrow.’

She let her legs hang loosely from the kitchen counter she was sitting on, disappointed with his reaction. Nobody discussed anything important in the New World, not even her supervisor.

‘But I don’t want to talk to you, or anyone else for that matter, about myself,’ she almost whispered, ‘Not yet. I want to understand what’s going on before I choose to pour myself on paper.’

Tomás scratched his head, nervously. He looked like he had a lot on his mind, but was torn between being open to her and playing his role. He turned around and came closer, if not too close. Out of the blue, a genuine smile formed on her lips this time, slightly throwing him off.

‘I believe that you don’t understand the essential, and the essential here, Kara, is that you don’t get to choose whether or not you should write – not talk – about yourself. We chose that for you when we brought you here. And, on a more personal note, I would suggest you do it because you do not wish to be taken anywhere else but home at the end of the week,’ he said, whispering the last words.

And with that, he shut the door behind him again; and her blood turned cold.

III // Testing the Waters

Kara sat on the porch puffing on a cigarette, thinking about how her mind was really nothing more to these people than fodder for banal chats or made-up stories for strangers to read. She never wanted to spill it out in clear words. She had always been a very private person, mainly because nobody would have taken her side, but lonely was so very different from alone. Kara started to rethink her definition of strength; was she strong enough to not just be lonely, but also alone? She smiled to herself – the treatment was supposed to make her think about her role in the society, rather than ignite her proud sentiments about being a misfit.

It was another bright, icy cold day up in the mountains. Wrapped up in her new checked wool blanket, she buried the cigarette butt in the snow and took another sip of the hot black coffee. Beautiful as it seemed, the weather was deceiving; just like her. It was time to face facts and fears, sit down at the big wooden desk and write.

Conquering demons, depression and nights away from home

Life is beautiful and vivid and wild and I want to run with this passion; but not the kind of passion you expect to see. It’s not loud, in the open. I learned early that there is a better way, more intimate, more intense. It takes fractions of seconds to send shivers down my spine, to make me curl up in a ball, to feel whole like your World can never make me feel (especially when you put me here).

My world has billions of candle lanterns and string lightning, yours only have illusions of big shining lights at the ends. Your tunnels are the illusions. That’s why you don’t see the lights. I have made them up, even in the darkest of places.

You are out there, in the open field, under the sun and stars, but you’re silencing your minds, your hearts and your souls with your pointless treatments. What are you treating? There is human time and there is wild time, and I’m taking my time to be wild; away from you. In small moments I feel magic, hot, pumping magic coming out of myself. What do you feel? What are you treating?

Safer than houses is how I find my own self to be, and it is deliciously satisfying to know that I must be a prime example of one of those lucky souls; the ‘whole package’ kind. I wonder if there are others who think more than your typical thoughts, because I am yet to meet them. I am happily unsettled and unsatisfied, but I crave company, but my kind of company. Your World is a merry-go-round of dolls.

I wish that what you call monsters were real people. I wish I could meet them, hang out with them, marry them. I wish that you, who have no right over me, would let them exist if only in my head. Not even on paper. I have no desire to share my inner world with you just because you can’t let go of the need to know, every second of the day, and let your own minds wander around in the dark for a bit. You are looking for secrets because you can’t believe your own minds. I am not crazy. Crazy isn’t a status; crazy is you and me amplified.

Do you find me odd, unusual, lab experiment for your greedy eyes and helping hands? Good. Leave wild things alone, because they are only beautiful admired from a distance, not up close. The world is your playground. Imagination is mine.

Will never be yours.

Yours, truly

Kara looked at the piece of paper in disgust. It looked like a horribly written draft, and it had nothing to do with the reason she was there. She knew very well why she was there, but what she couldn’t tell was how others knew. She wasn’t going to let go of her fantasies that easily though.

Perhaps I like stories where one rescues the other too much, and I imagine everything in between in too much detail. Playing on both fragility and strength has always been my thing. I am not one, but both. The saviour and the damned, the hero and the damsel in distress. I am both the vulnerable, big-eyed girl, and the monster that saves her after trying to eat her. I am the cat and the mouse, the dragon and the ashes left beneath his sometimes-too-daring flames. I am intensity and passivity all at once. I am two sides of the same coin, two magnetic poles, two people who don’t understand each other through words but whose hearts beat to the same rhythm in the end. Only they don’t know. Only I don’t know it either most of the time.

That’s why I imagine – because I don’t know myself entirely yet. I’m a flock of questions marks flying back and forth and eventually in circles. I understand who I am through scenaritis, and I don’t wish to be treated. I can never experience enough in your world, so I need to be left to do it in mine. I say less than I think, I create less than my mind gives me, and I’m trying to find God everywhere even though I’ve been Him all along; and the lost sheep, and the very definition of contrast. I am the girl in the storyland and I’m not looking to escape.

She opened the drawer and decided to forget about her first attempt at writing. This wasn’t good, it was raw writing, words not quite filtered through her mind. Perhaps this was what they needed, perhaps they would interpret everything the wrong way. She was going to do better the next day, but for now she wanted to focus on something else, such as making food or counting the mountain peaks she could see from every window around the cabin. She would write later, after all there was still time. Maybe she could pull off something on the seventh day and then go home, having fooled demanding Tomás and having kept her mind unaltered, she thought. Then she stopped thinking about it.


A short knock on the door woke her up. There was nothing to do, so Kara had been asleep on the couch for hours. She put the blanket around her shoulders and dragged her feet to the door to open it, yawning and sleepily rubbing her eyes. Standing at the door, Tomás looked happy, if not amused, and offered her his first wide grin before coming inside.

‘Is this how you write?’ he shouted from the kitchen a minute later.

‘Not today,’ she said, recovering her strength and walking in.

‘And why is that?’

‘Because anything I’d write today would be related to my confusion about being here.’

Bowls filled with fresh food were all over the kitchen countertops, Tomás looking more concerned about what to cook than her confusion.

‘Ok, you win, if that’s what it takes to make you write. You want to talk, we can talk over dinner. For now, will you help me here?’

‘Sure,’ she mumbled, surprised, nearly tripping on her blanket’s ends and falling over.

‘Hold this, then, and be careful there,’ he said, stretching out his left arm and handing her a kitchen knife.

She gave him a long, hard look, her eyebrows raised in disbelief.

‘What is it, Kara? Have you never chopped off peppers before? You start by cutting off sections – here,’ he laughed and gestured her to take the knife.

Yet she held on tightly to the upper ends of her blanket, staring at him still.

‘Tomás, I’m here… well, pretty much against my will.’

‘That’s right, it is a very entertaining thought indeed,’ he laughed, offering her the knife once more and bringing out the same reaction. ‘Kara, come on, what is it with this knife that you won’t take it?’

‘I… I don’t want you to report me.’

‘Report you for what?!’

‘For trying to hurt you, even though of course I wouldn’t…’ she whispered.

Instantly, Tomás froze, letting his arm fall loose to his side.

‘Did you say that on purpose?’

‘What? No, I… Oh,’ she gasped and arched her back.

She woke up for good, but it was too late. In her sleepiness, she let her mouth do the talking and say things she never should have said out loud. Her family was used to her being weird like that, occasionally letting out a bad thought or two, but always warned her against saying such things around strangers. Whenever she talked about harming people, death or such matters, people would turn away from her. How could she be so stupid and unguarded around Tomás, the one and only person meant to actually watch and take notes of her actions? She let herself fall to the floor, in horror. Who know where she would end up sent next, and all because of her bad mouth.

‘Stand up, Kara,’ he said, and she complied, but didn’t dare to look him in the eyes. ‘Seriously, you said that on purpose? How did it even cross your…’

It so happens that she got very good in time at reading’s people’s voices and nuances, so good that his sudden pause challenged her to look up to him… and there it was, a trace of a smile on his lips – and eyes! – that quickly changed back into his usual mask of seriousness when he noticed her shock.

But it was too late for him too.

Could she play this card? Could she talk to him, or should she apologise and start chopping peppers?

But there went her bad mouth all over again.

‘Why are you smiling, Tomás?’ she asked, her own voice now betraying her amusement and joy at finding him not so intimidating after all. ‘I said an awful thing by mistake,’ she continued, just in case the situation also needed to be saved, ‘and I have no idea how it crossed my mind.’

There we go. Awkward silence starting in…

‘Kara,’ he said, biting his lip to think about what to say next – or keep his laughter to himself? – ‘I’d like you to take this knife and…’ he stopped to bite his lip again, ‘start… hurting, the peppers.’

‘How could anybody hurt… something?’ she asked, taking the knife and feigning innocence.

This could be her ticket out, or her ticket to win him over.

‘Don’t push it!’ he warned and, grabbing another knife, let out a quick, short, wholehearted laughter, as if to say he was relieved – or that he was on her side.


Later, in the comfort and safety of her bed, Kara tried the things she learned from Tomás that night to see how they feel. Tomás spoke with confidence the whole time, and rarely looked her in the eye. As if hiding something.

What really affected her was his reaction to her writings from that day. He knew how to find the piece of paper in the drawer and analysed it quickly, perhaps too quickly. After seeming very concerned about her mentioning a lab, he shrugged it off and went back to something alone the lines of This is nonsense, Kara. This isn’t what we need from you. He was clever and knew that she wasn’t putting her heart into it. She closed her eyes, almost tasting the pain of having to give away her secret world. We need you upside down, dripping out every story from that clever little brain of yours. We need you to let go of all your fantasies, scenarios, made-up worlds and people and stories. You need to release them, and free yourself – because this is the only way… out of here.

He was stubborn though; he wouldn’t tell her how he’d know when she was done. Are you going to come and collect them every night? she asked him, and all he said was That is up to me. You just focus on writing. As for the big why, there wasn’t any clearer answer than what she already knew. This is how we do it didn’t do it for her, and his conformism discouraged her once again.

Swallowing hard, she let her mind drift and take her to the other side. She dreamt of all the many things she would never dare to talk about, let alone write. Half, because she was afraid of losing herself, and the other half – because she was too ashamed of showing herself. 

IV // Truth Is a Colour a Texture a Noise a Feel

When she opened her eyes, chills ran up and down Kara’s entire body. Tomás was in the far corner of the room; he had let himself in while she was asleep and was reading her new set of writings. She could tell from the look on his face that he wasn’t happy with them, but in a different way than the evening before. She didn’t dare to move yet. It had been a long day and the last thing she wanted to deal with was him, angry at her for doing what she was told.

She wrote, hard. She wrote despite her fear and in spite of it, of things that were too difficult to even put into words. Her truth wasn’t always a set of characteristics, specific to a story a place a person; her truth was all over the place, messy and chaotic and raw but finally real. All the what-if stories, all the made up possibilities, all the stories she read about at her grandmother’s house and further developed into new ones; bits and hints of all these were in Tomás’ hands, and he looked anything but happy.

Curled up on the couch under the big wool blanket, she put her hands tightly over her mouth and her face between her knees, to contain a yawn.

‘Wake up,’ she heard his voice, and slowly opened her eyes again.

Tomás heard her moving and took a minute to think of what to say. Sitting on the rug in front of her now, he was holding her papers tightly near to him. She knew it was going to be a difficult conversation.

She knew it since she woke up that morning, determined to write.

‘Hi,’ she whispered. ‘What happened?’

‘I knocked. You were sleeping, so I had to use my key and found these on your table. What are these, Kara?’

She blushed. Still after writing so much, she felt so deeply embarrassed by her bad thoughts. It was easy when she got to keep them to herself, but so damn hard when she had to discuss them with him.

‘Just… stupid things that happen to go through my mind ever now and then,’ she lied.

These are my bad friends, who have kept me sane throughout the years in your stupid world of rainbows and butterflies.

He put his forehead on his fingertips and sighed out slowly, looking up at her.

‘I thought people don’t get so easily angry in the New World,’ she tried.

‘The New World… What do you know about the Old World? This is not the New World, this is the only world. People are people no matter when they’re born, which is exactly the reason why you are here – because we want people to be good. Do you understand me? Now, when I asked you to spill everything you’ve got out on paper this wasn’t what I expected to find from… a girl like you.’

She stood up, her sleepiness long worn off, asking for answers with her eyes.

‘You seem lovely, but are anything but,’ he hissed. ‘You’re trouble, Kara. This is going to be a long… week,’ he said, putting his hands on his knees and nervously running them up his thighs. ‘Tell me, do you have a thing for the Stockholm syndrome? I noticed a pattern.’

Perhaps I like stories where one rescues the other too much, and I imagine everything in between in too much detail. Playing on both fragility and strength has always been my thing. I am not one, but both.

‘Yes,’ she whispered through her teeth.

He closed his eyes in despair. She felt bad for him and for putting him through this for the first time.

‘Who would you want to be, then? The victim or the…’

‘Please,’ she interrupted. ‘I do not wish to discuss my stories.’

‘You do not wish to discuss your stories? Kara, you wrote the story of a sick man who falls in love with his victim – and you made her fall in love with him ? That, Kara, is sick. You are sick in the head.’

‘It doesn’t go like that. Stop saying sick. I am sick of your nothingness –’

‘Because they bond over a fire, smoking cigarettes and discussing his troubled past?’

‘Read it all,’ she snapped. ‘You can not dismiss my characters like that. I don’t know how successful I was at creating them on paper, but I can tell you how real they are up here. Anything you want to know about –’

‘Shut up!’ he shouted. ‘I know exactly how real they are. You can not keep them alive anymore.’

She blinked.

‘They are not alive, Tomás. They are just products of my imagination. They are only alive for my own entertainment.’

He narrowed his eyes at her, not telling anything but telling oh so much.

‘That’s it – they’re up here, not out there. They are my stories, and do not interfere with yours. I am good, but I am also bad – and you are a specialist, and you should understand human nature.’

‘Just tell me this story,’ he claimed, calmer, firmer. ‘I want to hear how low you can go.’

Kara sat down on the floor next to him, her back against the couch. All in, then.

‘His name is …’

Kara kept her eyes shut the whole time, expecting him to run away any minute. Telling him the story was also a test. She wanted to see how low she could take him, how low he would go. After all, it was nothing more but an out of proportion metaphor about strength and warmth, and it just happened to grow with her just like all the others. Well, kind of just happened, but the world was so terribly boring… But he stayed strong and, when she finished, she thought she could see the trace of a smile behind his worried look again. She nearly didn’t believe herself – until she saw him, instead of running, licking his lips.

‘Your story feels like reality,’ he said darkly, giving her the chills, up and down.

They were sitting on the floor, drinking hot mulled wine and treating her fantasies like gossip from next door.

‘How does it feel like anything? Such things would never happen in the New World.’

‘No, of they course wouldn’t,’ he rubbed his face, like people do after they tell a lie. ‘Not if we make sure those who invent them get… treated.’

‘What if we didn’t?’

‘Oh, Kara… then it would only be a matter of time until all your dreams came true.’

‘They’re not dreams, they’re nightmares; but strangely, they do me good. I would never want to be…’

She shut her mouth just in time. Telling Tomás she didn’t want to be like him would have been another big mistake.

Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t seem to notice her hesitation.

‘No, me neither,’ he smiled, and downed his glass of wine. 

V // They Live Inside Us, and Sometimes, They Win

It was barely dawn when Kara woke up, looked around and began to imagine what she wanted to see – a floor, a sky, four white walls closing in – and what she might do with her time. Her thoughts didn’t race around at the speed of light. For some reason it was just blank upstairs. She laughed to herself. She knew the reason; of course she knew the reason.

She also knew she wouldn’t write; not until late, anyway. It was time to relax her mind and take a walk, finally explore the area. She went to the kitchen, made tea, stared out the window and thought of what she would write next, but after Tomás’ reaction last night she was scared to write anymore. Soon after breakfast she wrapped herself up warm, put on her grandmother’s gloves, grabbed the keys from the wooden desk and shut the door behind her.

It was a bright day with not one cloud in the sky and the cold seeping into her bones. Always looking behind not to get lost, she began to climb up the only road there was. She wanted to know if there were others; if there was anything at all out there.

Reaching the top of the hill, she smiled and felt easy, feather-light. She left her bag on top of an iced rock and took a cigarette out of her pocket, and lit it up. It was serene, tranquil, and beautiful. It was frightening, too, but the good kind. She felt alive in the world, and it wasn’t that bad at all. She was going to keep writing when she returned, not so much because it felt good indeed but rather because Tomás intrigued her and she wanted to see more of him. After all, she already had everything inside her, and he was a professional. Whatever she gave him to read stayed between the two of them, or so the protocol said. It was time for her to test his limits, she thought, and her cigarette was good and the air was fresh and her mind was finally clear.

A young girl’s voice came up from somewhere in the distance. She sounded happy and excited, and Kara found her quickly. She wasn’t very far, and she was pointing at Kara. There was a small man too, but he looked quiet, oddly incurious. Finishing her cigarette, Kara ran downhill to meet the two. As she got closer, the other girl looked even friendlier – a brown-haired beauty with rosy cheeks and perfect teeth, wearing a long, warm brown coat. The man, Kara thought, was very old. He walked slowly, but looked healthy and strong otherwise.

‘Hi, I’m Kara,’ she shyly introduced herself.

‘Cassandra,’ the other girl said happily, and before she could tell Kara was given a big warm hug.

It was a lovely feeling after the last couple of days.

‘This is my great-grandfather.’

‘Hello,’ Kara smiled.

‘Are you cold, darling girl?’ the old man asked warmly holding her hand, pointing back at their house – also, it seemed, in the middle of nowhere.

Kara shook her head; she was fine.

As if reading her mind, Cassandra continued:

‘The village is back there, we’re just a little… out of it,’ she giggled. ‘But you should definitely come visit! How long are you staying for?’

Kara immediately understood that she wasn’t the first person the two had met that was there with the programme.

‘Just one week, hopefully.’

‘Plenty of time, then,’ Cassandra smiled.

She had a very reassuring, genuine smile.

‘Come with me to the village’s bar tomorrow tonight, what do you say?’

‘Sure,’ Kara said eagerly, ‘All they want me doing in stay inside and write, and I haven’t got that much to say to them,’ she hissed.

‘Ah, those bastards,’ the old man laughed shaking his head to the ground, then looked up at the mountains. ‘This has been going on for too long, bringing people out here in the cold and leaving them alone with their thoughts; of course they make up stories, what else can somebody do up here? Man is a social animal.’

Kara nodded along to his words, slightly absent-minded.

‘They bring people from all over the country to our village to make them write down their stories,’ the old man continued, ‘I always wondered, what’s the point of that?’

‘But the irony is,’ Cassandra added, ‘that us living here, we don’t believe in their nonsense.’

‘You don’t?’ Kara asked, surprised. ‘So you have never…’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ she smiled, ‘but they let me go so very soon. I didn’t have much to tell them – frankly, I just live here with my family, and it’s a quiet, simple life. I haven’t got much trouble on my mind,’ she made a funny gesture with her hand.

Kara smiled sympathetically. She liked Cassandra’s sweet nature.

‘Why here, of all places?’

‘Who knows,’ the old man puffed. ‘We even made up a legend, and they let us get away with it. We say that up here people rid themselves of bad energies, and they go to die up in the forests. If people did it in cities, the bad energies would give birth to chaos again.’

Kara looked at him, attentively.

‘That’s a very interesting story,’ she said.

‘Darling girl,’ the old man said kindly, ‘who’s to say that stories must be trusted to be true? They are only stories; they can’t escape one’s mind.’

Kara looked around, restless. She was the queen of stories after all. She knew perfectly well the degree to which stories could end up controlling one’s mind, personality and life in the end. In that sense, stories were as real as the three of them were.


That long, endless afternoon, Kara told the papers the story of S. She had an affinity for him, and he wasn’t dangerous; she made him up, and she made herself up in the story, of course, but if they wanted to hear it… She looked at the paper and sighed heavily. So be it, this is my right – and obligation, it seems – to tell the story of my mind just as it is. The real reason behind her newfound eagerness was, of course, challenging Tomás and giving him a reason to perhaps see her in a different light. But that, that could stay on the inside, she smiled to herself.

When she finished, she jumped from her chair and went to the other room to get dressed for going out. Her mind was boiling hot and she was on the verge of crying. She could never fight her thoughts, for they were as much badland as they were her very essence. She was made out of all the bad she could imagine and she was, by every definition, the girl the bad mind and the bad heart. There could be no other reason for somebody to be so ungrateful and out of tune with life, when life was all around her, always pinching her and screaming Pick me! Pick me! Yet Kara was a lost cause, because life, for Kara, was a lost cause too. That was why she was bad. She couldn’t love life hard enough. Of course life couldn’t love her much in return either.

That evening, toxic thoughts and darkness swirled in her mind for such long hours that they could have easily bled out into her bloodstream. She felt crazy for the first time, and she knew she wasn’t going home anytime soon.

VI // You Are Not Bad, Kara

After walking in the dark in what was a mild version of a snowstorm, Kara couldn’t be happier in Cassandra’s house. The old man was asleep, and the girls talked animatedly for a little while before getting ready to leave. The bar was about twenty minutes away, and when she shut its door behind them, Kara sighed a sigh of relief.

It was a ridiculously cosy place for a bar, with coloured globes lighting up the whole room. Warmth, music and human voices washed all over her, all things she had too much of in the past and crazily craved now. Whoever she was, they didn’t know and she would stay a misfit in her heart only for one night.

‘Come,’ Cassandra smiled, reaching for her hand and guiding her to the bar. ‘Let’s get something to drink.’

Kara ordered a beer and never felt happier to get one in her life. Sipping slowly, she looked around to get familiar with the scene. There were more men than women, chattering and laughing all around. She secretly wondered how many of them were just like her; probably no one. They must have all been born and lived their whole lives in the remote village, maybe some even without going through ridiculous treatments. Her mind went to Tomás who was probably back at the cabin reading her awful thoughts, and guilt, shame and nausea all came to her at once. Facing him the next day was going be the hardest thing.

‘Kara!’ Cassandra snapped. ‘Come, let me introduce you to my friends – tell me when you want another one,’ she smiled sweetly, eyeing her beer.

Kara noticed that half of it was already gone.

Later that night, she went to the bar for yet another refill when she sensed a familiar smell. Before she knew it, Tomás’ arm snaked around her shoulders and pulled her close, if not too close again, to him. His body was warm, his breath smelled of alcohol and mint and his eyes were alight with joy. If she

‘There you were,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You could have said you wanted to go out. You are my responsibility, you can’t just sneak out on me like that.’

He was very talkative, and Kara knew it was because he was already drunk; otherwise he would have been furious.

‘If I want to go out,’ she shouted to make herself heard over the music, ‘will you take me?’

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever,’ he put his fingers on her lips as a gesture to shut up. ‘Let’s talk about that tomorrow. Now that you’re here, would you like something to drink?’

‘Are you allowed to buy me drinks?’ she grinned.

‘Don’t push it,’ he laughed. ‘It’s just tonight, and I’ll say you escaped. It happens all the time, they won’t be too harsh.’

‘What, with other patients?’ she laughed, and handed her glass to the bartender.

‘No, I mean at the lab.’

‘What lab?’

He blinked twice, hard, as if he didn’t know what she meant.

‘What do you mean what lab? Kara, another beer? Really?’

‘No, what lab, really?’

‘I thought you… when you wrote… ah, forget about it, we have our things,’ he laughed. ‘Who are you with, anyway?’

She came very close to him, but he didn’t seem to mind. Curious man, Tomás.

‘It’s too loud in here,’ she said in his ear as he turned toward her, ‘and too hot. Let’s go outside for a cigarette.’

‘Sure,’ he smiled, grabbed their drinks and she went for her coat.

She followed him outside; it was grey and it started to drizzle, and she liked the wind and the sound of cars driving on wet streets.

After briefly filling him in on her new friendship with Cassandra and watching him nodding along while watching her lips move as she spoke, Kara lit up their cigarettes and took a deep breath. The cold night air was, three hours of socialising in the dark later, refreshing and invigorating. She waited and waited for him to say something about her newer writings, but felt vaguely disappointed by his lack of interest. He didn’t seem to have any thoughts on the matter.

‘You went to see me tonight?’ she eventually tried.

‘Not you, your stuff. And yes, I did.’

All of a sudden he grabbed her elbow and squeezed tightly, but reassuringly. He was clearly drunk, but Kara could see the same worried look on his face again. He wanted to tell her things that he was not allowed to.

‘I never went through this, Kara’ he confessed.

‘Through having a beer with one of your patients?’ she found herself asking, her mind elsewhere.

‘No,’ he laughed, ‘through… you know… this, that you’re going through right now.’

It hit her hard, the realisation that he was like her in some way. She tried to avoid it, then ran straight into it.

‘I don’t know how it feels to have your thoughts forced out of you; but then again, I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut so they could never guess it was me,’ he frowned, as if recalling an unpleasant memory. ‘What you wrote there, again… I mean, Jesus. You can’t create like that. Not if you want to go back to your life anyway. And you can’t make people up like that. You haven’t defined him. To you he is just a breeze, but what if he’s insane, what if he’s worse? The effects these… thoughts could have if nobody regulated them… You have to think of what you’re doing, Kara.’


‘Whatever. What do you know… which is why you’re here,’ he sighed.

She thought about what would be the best question to start with, given that she didn’t have much time until her cigarette burned out and he would start complaining about the cold. Tomás forgot his coat inside and was already shaking in his black and navy blue pinstriped shirt. Most questions were going to have to wait until much later then, for sure.

‘What about yours? How come nobody wants to regulate yours? Surely you’ve made a mistake or two in your life and said something foolish,’ was what she managed to come up with, although she was also dying to know was what his mind could do.

‘Ah, I’m sure they would love to,’ he laughed, ‘but the things is that I keep quiet, so they can’t tell if I have any – not even by seeing them. Nobody knows which ones belong to whom. Wild guesses rarely work, and nobody takes the time for that. Someone must have reported you, and the way I see you, it could have been anyone.’

He made no sense, she thought.

‘Seeing what? What the hell do you mean? Which ones belong to whom?

‘Forget it, I told you. I can’t.’

Disconcerted, she was now the one wanting to break the cycle. Maybe he made sense, maybe he didn’t – it was all too much for her to understand after the drinking.

‘Are my thoughts that important to you? Is that all you see me as, a sum of thoughts? Am I nothing else but that?’

‘You are not bad, Kara,’ he whispered, as if reading her mind.

She closed her eyes. The rest could wait. Smiling shyly, she went back inside followed closely by him.

It didn’t take long until, between smiles, nods, and getting closer and closer to hear each other over the music, their bodies brushed together and her arms tightened around his neck. Kara pushed herself closer and closer to him, because she wanted him, and because she didn’t want herself. For a couple of minutes she remembered what it’s like to be young and scared and wanting so badly to give yourself away, because you don’t know what to with all that’s been given to you. You do it with eyes wide shut and a burning desire to never get yourself back.

But as his mouth got closer to hers, his arms remained loosely around her waist. He had doubts about making out with a patient, surely. Kara too knew that they weren’t supposed to, but Tomás smelled of alcohol, cologne and Tomás, and she loved it. Her senses returned, either to make her aware of the danger this man could have been or to tap her on the shoulder and encourage her to enjoy the moment.

When she kissed him, life, real life in the New World finally turned into the same shade it was when she read about adventures, bliss and sleepless nights in strangers’ arms from her grandmother’s books. Other boys never really got to her, but Tomás, maybe because he read through her – literally – and didn’t hate her, made her feel accepted, so she could finally accept herself too. Whatever it was, he was closer to her in many ways than many people.

That night she felt new, and strange and beautiful. For the first time, she wanted to give up on her stories and embark on one of her own. Without saying much he managed to crawl inside her mind and make her imagination run wild, not to other worlds but to the very New World she despised, and found herself suddenly in love with.

Tomás’ heart beat faster and faster too, but he knew better. There were things Kara didn’t know of and would have scared the life out of her. People of the New World were born to live a lie, and the kind of truths she asked for were better off hidden from their fragility. He could live both, because he liked the lie and could take the truth, but she seemed inconstant and capricious, and a lunatic too.

Much as he was happy to find someone real, he felt bad about encouraging her. It would have been against the protocol, the world as it was finally shaped, and everything he knew. Like Kara, Tomás didn’t know anyone else who was, by all the New World’s definitions, crazy. Even the lab workers were balanced and happy to go through the treatments, after seeing what kind of monsters the imagination could produce.

She was something else, like him, and it was hard to see a good thing when you across it for the first time, blinded by the lights. Because, like Kara, Tomás could never accept his own bad mind, and the acceptance he got from others was part of the lie.

‘You’re a maddening girl, Kara, in every way, and not every way is good. I like my world all tidied up nicely, and girls like you risk making it very imperfect all over again. Come, let’s take you home and make sure you carry on writing,’ he said, shaking his head.

She fell back on her heels, taking her arms off from around his shoulders.

His eyes moved up and down her body, then he pushed her away.

That was it?!

‘You can’t drive, you’re too drunk,’ she said, sternly. ‘I’ll go see who else is free.’

‘No, no, no, don’t do that,’ he snapped, grabbing her arm and leading her off the dance floor, as if suddenly completely sober. ‘You don’t know these people.’

‘You don’t trust people?’ she asked, raising her eyebrow skeptically. ‘Since when? I thought harming was a taboo in the New World.’

‘I trust people,’ he mumbled, as if thinking to himself. ‘Just not right now. We’re too high up. They might be leaks.’


‘That’s what we call the ones who escape from the lab. Sometimes they escape –’

‘Ah, the lab! Yes, tell me about the lab,’ she mumbled, blinking hard and fast and trying to pull herself together as quickly as she could.

‘…it’s hard to control such big numbers, and I swear it’s hard to think of them as people,’ he turned to her angrily, but couldn’t see her expression in the dark. ‘This is why they don’t like you thinking those bad thoughts, because then this happens! Imagine if this was the case in your hometown. You’d never be safe taking a cab.’

‘What are you on about…? What is it with my thoughts and you?’

‘Because they spill into the world, and you never know what they might start,’ he carried on excitedly, giving her another hard look despite not seeing her clearly.

Kara could tell that he was drunk and overly excited, but it was something he was deeply passionate about too. Although confused, she felt connected to him once more. Whatever it was with Tomás, it made him some sort of misfit too.

She slipped her hand into his and got closer, until she felt his warm breath on her cheeks.

‘They say I give off bad energies. Is it because of my bad thoughts?’

Her question was innocent, honest. In that moment, she cared less about the lab he worked in than she did about the reason behind his rejection.

‘Energies?’ he grinned, still excited, looking like a mad yet drunken scientist. ‘Is that what they think they stay? What about you? You wouldn’t really think that’s all bad thoughts are, stories inside your head and bad vibes for your friends, would you?’

‘Well, what else are they?’ she asked calmly, holding her breath.

Tomás laughed, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to know. He got so fired up that he completely forgot his train of thought, the protocol, the status of the curios, crazy girl holding his hand.


VII // Getting Ready to Meet the Devil

Towns at rest, people going home, intermittent patches of glitter and dark everywhere – life, dear life was happening all around her, dancing restlessly through her lashes. Head leaning against the car window, Kara felt wide awake with fear and curiosity. Houses rolled past her like a tracking shot in a film, blurring and disappearing from view the very next moment – as if reminding her not to bother, because everything was difficult, and everything was also fleeting.

The houses didn’t hold her interest for long. The passenger seat – the safe haven, and speed – a delicious break from the reality of the moment, were half-assing their jobs too. On the other side of the car Tomás kept giving sighs of helpless irritation, distracting her from her attempt to stay distracted.

‘Damn you,’ she mouthed silently to herself, and threw an arm over her eyes.

He wouldn’t look at her. Driving fast without saying a word, he only huffed and puffed now and then at his own seemingly unpleasant thoughts – she wouldn’t know, he wouldn’t tell. The car was saturated with him and she still couldn’t tell a thought from the other. Like a mausoleum they were shut up in, it was dark, musty and cold in there, and terribly lonely. If only she knew what he saw her through those quiet eyes of his.

If only he’d stroke her hair and said it was alright.

But his eyes were nothing like silence. Bright and alert, like a small animal that’s just realised a much bigger one is close, his mind was racing around her, circling but unable to confine. Now she knew, and she wouldn’t keep quiet. He had to show her things he was not allowed to show anyone, because now she would go back and question everything out loud. Ah, if only he could drive fast enough to lose himself in a vortex. Anything bigger than him would do, because for once, Tomás did not want the blame, the trouble, the girl.

Fidgeting in her seat, she finally turned to him. He looked tormented. She did not like real life complications much, and would have been happy to forget about this story if only he asked; if he asked anything. Life in the New World was simple, and that quality got to her in time. Her mind was a myriad of thoughts – all revolving around the insane things his mind seemed to believe, and whether they were due to heavy drinking or never receiving the treatment – but she’d have pulled down the blinds and shut them out if he wanted. After all, she was sick enough with storytelling to carry yet another’s burden. From life, she had picked a few things to like, but they did not have tormented faces: highways, rooftops, public swimming pools – all at night, houses with big gardens, flats up high on the last level, oranges, tea, red flowers, rock & roll, coloured lighters, sitting by the fire, large windows and larger beds, sundown, sunrise and sometimes, not going to bed at all, electric people, soul shakers and the lives she could live in five minutes, if nobody loved her enough to tie her down. But a sad man, she did not know how to handle, for she had never seen one before.

She finally let the alcohol kick in and her thoughts disperse, and shut her eyes.


Later, as she sobered up after the nap, Kara realised they weren’t up in the mountains anymore. They were driving across a vast, windy field with no trees or houses on either side of the road, at what seemed like speed of light and straight into nowhere.

Her lips were wine-dark and dry and she craved a glass of water and an explanation for where she was being taken, and if it wasn’t too much to ask, why. She had barely muttered a few words when she remembered he would not tell a thing. That was what it would be like. He would not talk, and she could not fight. To hell with it; he was breaking every other rule anyway.

‘Pull over!’

‘Oh no I won’t,’ he said as if he had had the answer ready the whole time. ‘There is nothing to do here. If you’re going to report me, I might as well drive you all the way up and let you have a good luck at what you’ve done first.’

‘Up where?’

‘Kara, you’ll have to trust me on this one, alright?’

‘What? Ah… listen, I wouldn’t… why would I report you, if you actually stop driving like an animal, and putting me at risk?’

Unconvinced, he slowed down and turned to her, listening, thinking. This was her moment, now.

‘Damn your professionalism, Tomás! Just tell me what’s going on – or fine, fine, don’t; but pull over, please! This is getting frightening. You really are driving like an animal. Listen, I’d be crazy to report you for having a couple of beers with me! Now stop this stupid car and let me catch my brea –’


Tomás stopped the car almost as he spoke, looking her up and down with wide open, inquisitive eyes. Listening, thinking, still.

‘Thanks for stopping the car,’ she smiled.

There was no point in arguing and she knew it. After all, she had had enough. She was on safe ground with him, and the rest could wait until they got back.


He waited a couple of seconds before nodding slowly in her direction, and taking one out of her pack.

‘Why do you think I’d’ – she lit up, then passed him the lighter, watching closely his every move – ‘report you? You didn’t take me out drinking; I sneaked out on you. I wouldn’t report on my own bad behaviour.’

Tomás laughed to himself, shaking his head slowly in disbelief.

‘If this is the case – what if I did, then?’

‘Roles reversed?’ she smiled. ‘I’d lie and say you lied, I guess.’

Tomás took a deep drag and opened the window to let in the crisp, cold night air. Smiling his sad little smile, but visibly calmer, he was the most good-looking man Kara had ever seen – perhaps because he was good-looking in a gentle, melancholic way. There were troubled waters beneath the surface, and she would never swim in them, and neither would others, ever. That in itself was incredibly attractive and exciting for somebody who had imagined people like him her entire life.

Suddenly she felt shy and self-conscious, remembering that it was his job to dive deep into hers – but the whole thing was whirling nicely round in her head, for it meant he’d be close for a little while longer.

He seemed to think about it for some time, but eventually put his arm through hers. She could feel him shivering. When she told him, he said it was cold there. She thought it was, too – but they were in such a gentle, formal place, that she did not dare complain about it. How often would a girl like her go to no man’s land – better, even, with somebody like Tomás?

‘Radio on?’


His voice, like everything else, was chilling, cynical and surprisingly moving. ‘Love at first listen,’ she thought.

Rearranging herself in her seat, she let her head back and closed her eyes. She’d have fastened herself on him if she could, even if it meant he’d drag her down. Hell or the closest to Heaven she’d ever been, she was in for the thrill, for this was one of those moments she read about in her grandmother’s books from what seemed – no, was – another world, the Old World. It was her and this man and their complicity and their bodies, and fingers, and thoughts intertwined in the night, the cigarettes and alcohol and the lies they’d just promised each other to tell to save their skins; the bad and the badder, the sense of being alive with each other far away from home, a place that felt home to neither, last night, tonight, tomorrow night…

The night felt dark, powerful and magical. Kara thought it was one of those nights she used to read about back in her grandmother’s attic.

A wave of warmth washed over her, then a cold shiver, then more, many, many more. To no surprise, smoking his cigarette in perfect silence, Tomás was waiting for the moment to come. His dark eyes watched closely as she suddenly jumped from her seat, coming to where he was. ‘I’ve been waiting,’ they seemed to say.

‘My God, you weren’t joking. I didn’t take you seriously back there. I should have – right? Oh, please tell me that I shouldn’t have.’

Staring back at him, she thought about what it’s like to be cold, shocked and afraid, as if it were in another life than this.

‘Well, if I knew you couldn’t tell when I mean a thing, I wouldn’t have bothered driving all the way up here. But now that we got this far, what do you say – shall I show you what your imagination has given birth to?’

The principle the New World worked on was very simple, yet it proved to have countless unexpected implications: the bad had to be eradicated. It was a very noble idea and it had been around ever since Eve ate the beautiful apple – except, of course, it never worked. In the New World, too, goodness was a concept that had to be balanced to be sustainable. The bad could be swept under the carpet, no doubt, but the carpet was still in the house. As the good flourished, the bad was only just around the corner, the shadow on the wall in the dark, the bump under the covers, the one thing nobody would have guessed from under the cleverly layered, multi-stranded stories. In Kara’s case, the bad was – surprise! – not inside her, but out there. Up there.

She gasped in horror when he put his hand on her knee, reassuringly – as if to say ‘Welcome to my world – don’t worry, I am here too.’


‘This is the highest up this road goes,’ he said, reaching for her hand. ‘From here onwards we have to walk, climb – run, if you’re brave enough. Come along now, don’t be afraid to see it on the outside. It can’t hurt you, I promise.’

Oh, but seeing it could.

‘It’s the things you do to yourself that count, Kara,’ he smiled reassuringly. ‘Whatever a storage up a mountain holds, you hold yourself to sleep every night. It’s your imagination you’re forced to say sweet dreams to, not its consequences.’

‘Storage?’ she frowned.

‘Well, you can call it that, or whatever you want. Frankly, it’s irrelevant. The chances it can ever touch you are close to none.’

‘And yet you dragged me out of the bar just in case there would have been any leaks; I wonder, what happens if…’

‘That’s a story for another night, princess,’ he said and began to climb.

Sometimes, fulfilling your dreams feels like watching your house burn down. There’s nothing you can do about it, because it’s already happening with or without you. You have to stand and watch, remembering the things inside you’re losing, and sometimes it’s the familiar passivity that lets you keep dreaming when the world gets tough that you’ll miss the most. Your dreams are becoming your world now – but no new world comes flawless on a silver platter, like you’d almost expect.

‘People,’ he said, ‘you know? It’s people that we create with our thoughts. And I wish this was an alegoria, and it’d only mean that we make or break our loved ones. It’s not. There are other worlds, but they are in this one – a quote from a writer back in the Old World, but you wouldn’t know.’

‘Yeats. I do know. I’ve had access to books from that time when I was a kid. But what I don’t get is if the Old World is in this one too?’

‘There is no Old World, Kara.’

‘Excuse me? My life has all been a lie?’

She stopped to catch her breath – with the sound of the heart in free fall inside her – but what could she do about it? Nothing. She didn’t deceive herself.

‘I’m afraid so, but I know you know this,’ he winked. ‘The Old World was simply the world as we know it, with these creatures running free among us. Sure, they wouldn’t just pop out of your mind, but they didn’t need to either; there were enough of them to balance the good. Yeah, the world was a pretty violent and unstable place to live overall, but –‘

‘It still is, behind the censorship?’ she asked, pointing at the massive metal gate in front of them.

‘Yeah. Yeah. And the world is constantly changing, evolving. There have been new worlds and old worlds for as long as the world has been a thing, you know? Don’t laugh, I mean it. They think they can just keep it nice and tidy. I’m telling you, the more time goes by, the more these –‘ he pointed at the building far behind the gate, ‘multiply. Like a damned Hydra! You know what that is, yeah?’

‘Yeah, I’ve read about that too. I get what you’re saying. People want to rebel, then; it’s not just me.’

Tomás shook his head.

‘No, but they go and seek treatment more and more often to stay afloat. But, like I said – the more of these –‘ he pointed back at the building, ‘we kill, the more people give birth to in their minds when they get home. It’s the New World’s fastest developing service, and I doubt it will stop, until…’

‘An even newer world?’

‘This just isn’t sustainable. But come, I will show it to you nevertheless. There might be hundreds of years until a new Big Bang in this poor old world, and this is the one we’re most certainly going to have to live in.’

Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he slowly pulled her up and they walked together on flat ground to the gate.

‘You said you liked this world back at the bar though, Tomás. Said you don’t want me to ruin it for you.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m a bit of a coward, but only because I know too much. And I’m sorry. You’re not ruining anything. I’m going to kiss you, you know? Just not tonight. Tonight is already too intense.’

‘Alright,’ she whispered.

More than this, she wanted to crawl wearily into bed, overtired and craving some empty hours to herself.

More than that, she wished to swap the excitement of stepping into playland with kissing the only interesting man that ever lived.


She thought, this can’t be so bad, as Tomás was unlocking door after door. I’m going into a museum of familiar faces — of people who never existed anywhere outside my head — and be reminded of all the thoughts I’ve ever had in all the rooms I’d ever slept in, in all the streets I’d ever walked in; and, perhaps, the odd pair of eyes in a jar, blinking violently at me, as if asking me to imagine them a little further.

Tomás’s arm snaked around her shoulder, reassuringly. There was no more anger in him. He had forgiven her, for whatever she’d done wrong that night.

Then I will unthink them, she thought, not knowing how she’d do that. Maybe other forms of treatment include erasing one’s memory. Maybe I can ask for that.

‘Are you ready?’ he turned to her, key in his hand by the last lock. She held her breath.

‘Is it just me?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he laughed. ‘Of course it isn’t just you. There are too many people in the world for each and every one to be the one. Here is the collective imagination of them all. I’m taking you on a tour. ’

She frowned, not liking his answer.

‘Then who’s the one — the lucky one?’

‘Nobody is,’ Tomás shrugged. ‘What did you expect? And at the end of the day, what would it mean, anyway? What could you possibly get out of being the one?’

‘Lots of things, I suppose.’

‘Yeah, but not at the end of the day. Nobody is anybody at the end of the day. Anyway, are we still talking about this?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she sighed. ‘I’m just not ready to see anything I might have created.’

‘Kara, you have created an entire world. You’ve been imagining crazy shit since you were a baby. Why are you suddenly a coward? You have to own your —‘

‘Show me yours first, then.’

Tomás stood still, eyes locked with hers, smirking.

‘Clever, but no. I’ll show you yours first, then we can talk about distractions. I’ve seen mine already, and you really don’t need to right now. Focus, alright? Listen — they’ve frightened you, haven’t they? Why did you let them frighten you like this? You are not bad, Kara.’

‘And you are the first one to tell me that without blinking, and it still took you until a couple of hours ago to do that, Tomás.’

‘Fine, fine,’ he rolled his eyes, exasperated. ‘I am sorry, if that’s what you want to hear, please forgive me for not knowing what I didn’t know before I learned it.’

‘But you read me —’

‘Oh yes, but I hadn’t kissed you, bought you beer or talked to you until 2am until a couple of hours ago, so reading meant nothing. People are not their writings. People are not even their thoughts, in their entirety, which brings me back to this,’ he said, leaning on the door. ‘This is barely who you are, because you also eat, sleep, and talk to your mother. This is your form of escapism, nothing else, and if it’s bad so be it; mine is awful, by the way. Don’t you look at me like that, I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. And you shouldn’t let anyone make you feel ashamed either. That’s a pat on the head you don’t need, the “calm down, dear”, the patronising wink to the crazy, harmless girl, the water poured on your potential to play God — and nobody should ever take that beautiful, guilty please away from anybody. Come on, Kara, how can you not be ready?’

‘If I’m not,’ she whispered, softly, ‘will they all, uhm, mine, you know… go?’

‘No,’ he said, but paused just as quickly. ‘Well, yes… this is why people undergo treatments. We’re trying to keep their numbers under control. But it’s not as easy as you… think.’

‘Because they keep coming back?’

Tomás pulled her slowly towards the door.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘I don’t have all the answers. Maybe we can figure out yours tonight. Welcome to your reality. Here, everything you can imagine is real.’

VIII // Questions of Identity and Belonging

She was feeling for the knob when she saw the light of his cigarette at the other end of the corridor. His words were still floating insistently in her mind — a seductive but dangerous truth. She could make and break the reality of the moment, and she would do it over and over again, to exhaustion; and she would shut him with her silence a little longer, too, just until she’d seen all of her wildest visions acted out. She thought, ‘My heart could be whole. My heart could be so whole.’

And then she thought: Had this still been the world in Jade Montgomery’s books, this would have been an entirely different kind of story. No gods and monsters, no imaginarium, no new society covering up its people’s dirt and pretending to thrive. It would have been just like in the Old World, where people walked into a café and went to the table on the terrace to have a drink, or got into a taxi and drove along the blazing hot streets to somewhere beautiful where they could be alone, or sat at large desks with white sheets of paper in front of me, the sun outside, and music starting up somewhere, and thought of tomorrow; and, unlike in the New World, there would be a gap in their heads, a blank, as if they were falling through emptiness, because unlike in the New World they wouldn’t know what tomorrow would bring to them.

She wouldn’t have had to make anything up inside her head in an interesting, lively world like that. No, it would be much simple than that — things would just be, no rehearsals, no digging for ideas. Things would happen to her rather than because of her, and she would be living them out loud , in the sunlight, in the shade, in the light and in the dark and maybe — just maybe — in his car out there, if it’d have still been the same car or, oh well, a different car or no car at all. Things would just come, and she would breathe them in and let them wash over her and refresh her heart in the summer, and break her heart in the winter. Stories would come and go, so many of them by then and so many still, until she’d learn to stand on her own two feet, clutch the corners of her dress and say ‘No more, I am a big girl now,’ and then she would embark on a new one, just one. One big, important story that she would write herself, and that would be enough for a life well lived.

In another life, in another world — the Old World — Kara would have went to a summer camp that summer. She’d have been lying on a blanket in sunlight all ay, drinking wine and talking horrors with people who’d laugh at them and then drink some more; they would know they were only stories and could never be anything more, and they would never be anything more.

Maybe one night, in the open yard where beer would have numbed her senses, she would have locked eyes with him and think he was the one. Late that night, after the fire had gone out, she’d have left, eager to sneak back inside and lie awake, watching the lights outside draw shadows on her roof, shivering through layers and night-dreaming without sleep about road trips, overheard heartbeats and the world of possibilities at her fingertips.

Or, if this was one of those daring stories she used to read only when Jade wasn’t home, maybe he would have followed her in the dark. Then, just as she’d be feeling for her door he’d light up a cigarette in the main doorway, and she’d know it was him out of everybody else. The story would not necessarily have to stop there. She never really liked the plain, simple happy endings. And they lived happily ever after. No!What did they live? Where did they go? How did he take his coffee? What would he think of her freckles and chipped fingernails in the sunlight? What would happen next in her story could easily be a sequel on its own. Kara blushed. It was so obvious, what they would have lived next in that world. He’d have taken her skin in his teeth and her jeans at her toes, and the rest would have been a blur that lasted forever, that still was. Perhaps the loud dispense of raindrops in a coffee cup filled with cigarette leftovers in the morning could have been the much, much happier ending to this story, because it would have been no ending at all. No story she ever read ended like that.

She thought: What else? Highways, rooftops, public swimming pools — all at night, houses with big gardens, flats up high on the last level, oranges, tea, red flowers, rock & roll, coloured lighters, sitting by the fire, large windows and larger beds, sundown, sunrise and sometimes, not going to bed at all, electric people, soul shakers and the lives she could live in five minutes, if nobody loved her enough to tie her down.

Still leaning on the door frame, this time without any clear intention of ever finding the knob, she felt his hot breath on her shoulder and his heart beating against her wingbones.

‘What’s wrong, Kara? Spiralling down the hell hole again?’

‘I’m scared,’ she said. ‘I just had new thoughts. If I opened this door now, I’d probably see their stage adaptation. This is exhausting. I don’t want anybody to have access to a record of my thoughts, not even me.’

‘Don’t be silly, they’d be gone by now. You’d need to nurture them over time if they were to stay. The new ones are fragile, like newborns. They don’t have faces and lives of their own, outside you. Things may look like real carvings around here, but they are erasable, there are no encrustations; all is reversible, if you only change your mind.’

‘Like that’s easy to do.’

‘It depends,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘You just said you changed your mind about your last vision.’

‘I just don’t want to see it now, that’s all. It’d be too much. I’ve seen enough for a lifetime.’

‘Good,’ he smiled in the dark; she could tell from the tone of his voice. ‘Then we can come back tomorrow.’

Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he walked her slowly back to the main door.


The pre-mixed gin and tonic fizzed up over the lip of the can as she brought it to her mouth and sipped. There was no rush for anything in the world as she drank the rest of the night away. Tomás was right there, hand around her waist, another can in his hand. They were back at the car, sitting in the dark, looking at each other.

Human beings truly have a deep need to bond and form connections to get their satisfaction, and Kara was bonding to another human being for the first time. Until then it had always been a book, a thought, a plan to leave. Now, for once, it was a man.

‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘if I ruled the world — no, seriously — I’d never ask you to undo a thing.’

‘Why is that?’

He moved her hair out of her face, slowly.

‘I think I’d like to live in an imaginarium with you. You come up with incredible…’

‘Have you actually seen my thoughts tonight?’

‘Other than the ones I showed you?’ he laughed


‘Oh… yes. The new ones.  There were empty rooms and then suddenly, they were not so empty anymore. Very vague, as expected.

There was… me,’ he murmured, ‘in a… room. It was strange to look at, the odd creature. Then there was you,’ he smiled.
Kara fidgeted in her seat.


Tomas clasped her chin between his palms. ‘You made me feel alive and well, Kara. You are pretty good at life, better than you think. You are a more badass version of me, I believe,’ he said softly, smiling still.

She nodded, careful not to let herself out, every uncensored inch an entire avalanche of honest echoing through her lips.

‘Don’t go,’ she murmured. ‘I want to keep talking all night. Please,’ she said in a little, little voice. ‘I can’t handle the silence, I can’t handle the lack of warmth and I can’t handle myself tonight.’

She blushed. He knew what she did back there, and she knew he knew it, too.

Tomas sighed, heavy-heartedly.

‘I’ve risked enough for you tonight already, haven’t I?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she bowed her head.

‘Forget it, what’s another hour or two? Come inside, I’ll fetch something from the car and be right in with you.’

She stayed by the curtain and watched him, and after a while he got a blue bag out of the car and walked back to the cabin.

‘You said there is no Old World.’

‘Ah, technically – but what do you call this world, if not a new one? It’s locked up everything it didn’t like. In the past people were both good and bad. Now they can only be good, because all the bad is being consistently taken out and up there. This is not a free world, Kara. We are not free to be those…. People,’ he tested the word, carefully. ‘And it’s a sad fact, because we are them. It’s a strange nostalgia for the bad in us, isn’t it? Who in the Old World would’ve thought people would ever fight to keep the evil inside them?’

‘Leaks, you mean. You think our potential selves living it up back in those cages have leaked from my mind just like that, and they suck…’

‘Kara, Kara, hey,’ he stood up and went next to her, ‘they are not leaks, baby, they are locked up in there, leaks are the ones that…’

‘That escape, yes, but let me ask you something – how do they escape? Have you ever seen one escape?’

‘I have not.’

‘And do you know of anyone who has ever seen one escape?’

‘No, but I have heard of those they found on the streets.’

‘That is a fortress, Tomas. There is no way they could even rattle the bars of their cages. They can’t run away. Not unless their creator makes them.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that, in order for them to leak, they need to be… reimagined somewhere outside the lab – if, of course, the person doing it knows they’re in there.’

‘That makes no sense, alright?’ he smiled. ‘I promise you, it makes no sense.’

‘Listen – what if people from the system, who know about the existence of the lab, have decided to release their favourite pets?’

‘Kara, this is the alcohol talking, not you. One can’t do that with only their minds.’

‘One can create them with only their minds.’

‘Jesus. What I mean is that nobody else can do it.’

‘Tell me something. How do they end up there? How is there where my thoughts go?’

Tomas sighed, heavily.

‘Unfortunately, we don’t have access to much material from the Old World, as you know. It’s hard to say why, exactly, that’s where they go. I don’t know how much the technology evolved that they are able to collect all thoughts in there.’

‘How do they know which … thoughts, belong to whom?’

‘They don’t really, for as long as you control them. But it’s very often that people let go of that control.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Well, say you’re feeling terribly lonely, and you make up an imaginary friend. You start thinking of what they look like, what they behave like, what their story is. You imagine them into the world, and that brings you comfort – for that is a hidden, wild part of your subconscious living their own story, right?’

She nodded. She had many such friends.

‘The problem is,’ he went on, ‘that sometimes you need a little extra comfort. You don’t merely need to imagine a fabulous persona living an exciting life. Sometimes you need a pat on the back, a hand on your shoulder that makes things right – preferably with a low, sexy voice, saying things you want to hear.’

She giggled.

‘It’s true, though, isn’t it?’ he asked, and she nodded, again. ‘So then you sit down with your favourite pet, ask them questions and let them do the talking. Do you know what I mean?’

‘You mean, I do the talking through them.’

‘Not quite, no.’

‘But they’re in my imagination, aren’t they? I am imagining them. Surely I get to speak for them.’

‘Most of the times, you do. But sometimes, only sometimes, you grow so fond of them, you wish they were real. You wish they were sitting right here, in this room, with you, and talked to you. Perhaps you already know what they’d say, for you know who you want them to be and imagined them as such. They’d be stronger, bolder, wiser. They’d be your protector, your saviour, your rock. So you don’t bother with talking on their behalf. They have a mind and a soul, and you know what they’re made of, so you give them the freedom to speak to you, or hold your hand, or undress you.’

She blushed. Yet, she knew exactly what he was talking about. He, too, knew it.

‘Now, do you know what happens to the thoughts back in the lab that are given such freedoms?’

She shook her head.

‘They cease being merely thoughts. They no longer belong to their maker. They have gained their very own freedom of thought, speech, movement. Put simply – they no longer belong in the lab, for they are no longer just thoughts. So they disappear!’

‘What?’ she gasped, shocked. ‘How is that even possible? Do they just vanish into thin air?’

‘That’s hard to say, for I have never seen anything like that happening, but you simply can’t find them anymore. The freedom their maker grants them buy them their freedom from the lab, too. Think of the lab as a collective mind. Your thoughts are in there, but when they materialise, they no longer stay in your head. They have become your reality. So, yes, I suppose the final answer is that they go out into the world, as living breathing human beings. You know how every now and then they still find bad guys, right? They don’t show it on the news, but you’ve heard of such things surely?’

‘I’ve heard of bad people, yes. But then they are given the treatment. After all, I believe we’d all be bad without it,’ she chuckled.

‘Indeed, they give them the treatment – the drastic kind of treatment. But my point is, in a world where everybody is, supposedly, inherently good, kind and positive, where they have eradicated bad genes and there is no bad behaviour around to give birth to bad ideas, how can you possibly still have bad people? Think about it, Kara? Where do you think they come from? They come from the few unaltered, or what they call them – bad minds left.’

What followed was a long silence, and Kara could hear her mind screaming at her. At last, she had to ask.

‘Where do I come from then, Tomas? Why has my mind always been badland?’

‘I made you up,’ he laughed, then watched her face change until he could no longer hold it in. ‘I joke, Kara. I would have made you a lot less inquisitive, so you know it wasn’t me.’

She frowned.

to be continued

May Stuff


I woke up to a Facebook news feed flooded with ‘May the fourth be with you’ geeky posts. They made me smile for a minute or two, until bleaker thoughts took over. It is May the fourth indeed, and I haven’t posted — no, I haven’t written — in so long, when there is hardly anything I’d like more than to finish Badland and bask in the amazing feeling of having written a story, like having walked the labyrinth of my mind and come out fresher, stronger, and somehow wiser.

I could think or, ironically, write for hours about the brick wall I keep hitting when I’m almost ready to start, but really, it is May the fourth! It’s sunny, warm and it’s also bank holiday in the UK, and I’m about to go to a Spanish food festival on the South Bank! Whining online would be tremendously cynical.

I may not have written as much as I wanted, but I have done other things that, paradoxically, will only help me ignite and sustain the fire of my sneaky creativity.

“If you want your art to improve, try working on yourself then see how it reflects in what you make.”

In the past few months, I have been everything — back and forth and back again. No matter what the masters of funny and insightful 9GAG comic strips say, chaos is not where one’s best work comes from, if anything comes from chaos at all; but it is almost summer, and chaos is no longer my best friend. Things happened, or perhaps I finally happened, and I found it in me to lay the foundations of a better lifestyle.

I am now the marketing communications girl at SAGE Publications, the world’s leading independent academic and professional publisher. To everyone who’s been with me on this blog for a while, I made it into publishing, and it’s work hard, play hard time! I’ve also been having intense weekends, with trips to Wales and Southsea, a marathon, and festivals (@LDNcoffeefestival is all about free coffee & chocolate, whoa!) keeping me going strong and motivated to take it one step further and join GymBox.

Who wants to come home to Netflix and good greasy food after a long day of work, anyway?

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Before I start writing and posting again, I will leave you with a couple of interesting things:

  • Patrick Walsh wrote this cool piece about effective book marketing on his Publishing Push blog, and if you’re interested in books, marketing, or me (hint: I’m in it! Curious yet?) you should check it out. If you’re looking to promote your writing, go read!
  • Poetry expressed naturally and presented visually? Yes please. Douglas A. Yew is a poet and artist who just exhibited for the first time in a fantastic collective at Lacey Contemporary Gallery in London. His work is, simply put, awesome and I’m a big fan — not just a wine & padrón peppers buddy. If you like poetry and beautiful artwork, have a look at his website and give him a high five.
  • Have you ever loved a magical book above all others? Have you ever wished the magic were real? Jonathan Carroll writes novels about how terrifying that would be. If you ever find that your towering stack of to-read books has disappeared, well done! — but also, shame on you for not being prepared, and also, how did you do it? I’m obsessed with Jonathan Carroll’s books and I’m recommending them to everyone, especially since I started emailing him and discovered how very friendly and human he is too (I know, right?) To spare you my unending comments, have a look at his GoodReads author page.
  • Less literary merit here, but Lykke Li is a goddess and her Sadness Is a Blessing video is a masterpiece that I can’t stop watching and listening to! She is also a very interesting artist. Raise a hand if you don’t recognise yourself in her words, and also, maybe quit making art: “I just had to do it. It is the only thing that feeds my soul. If I wasn’t doing this I’d probably be dead. Some people do heroin, I have my music… It is the most beautiful gift of all. Everything that people criticise when you’re a child – ‘you’re so sensitive, you’re so complicated’ – is a great gift as an artist. All of a sudden you find yourself in this world with other artists where you’re accepted, and that’s all we ever want: to be accepted.

In the Midst of Fresh Ruins


His name was S. Was, and sometimes I’m not sure it even was at all. This is the story I thought I’d never tell. It’s also my favourite story of all. There are nights when I’m still burning with passion for all the things we did and all the more we could have done. These nights I don’t sleep at all. I toss and turn in my bed for hours, ardent and wanting and alive like I’ve only been since I met him and until everyday life happened and took him away from me. Other nights I sleep well, and I wake up laughing at all the others when I don’t.

‘What am I losing sleep over?’ I wonder as I stretch and think of hot coffee and outfits, ‘Stories with ghosts? Grow up, will ya,’ I tell myself and get up quickly, careful not to start questioning us again, doubting myself again, and generally thinking of all things that will never, ever happen again. The truth is that this story should be buried six feet under with me at the end of what I hope it will be my long and beautiful life, but day after day the same thought hits me — that life can never be as beautiful again.

‘There is blood singing in your veins, yearning life and wilderness and new hearts to be tamed. You can do so much more, you can be all that you want. Leave the ghosts where they belong — in your overactive, stubborn, chaotic mind, and move on from the stories you knitted with theirs; they aren’t part of your story, they aren’t part of anything. They aren’t — and that’s that,’ I try to convince myself as I brush my teeth, roll my stockings up, put on some pretty flowery skirt and head out for yet another day in the land of make believe. It’s funny they call it that, when S was the only one who ever truly, deeply believed in me and he wasn’t even from around here; or around here. I shake my head to shake off my sadness. How did our paths ever cross, and how can I be so sure they ever did? I am not. I have never been, but those new feelings must have come from somewhere. When and where are questions that I am unlikely to ever answer; but the what is so clear to me that every night when I lie myself to sleep and every morning when I laugh at my split personality can’t make up for half the truth I know in my heart.

He is as real as it gets to me, and this certitude warms up my entire body. He lives boldly and vividly in my world. Ah, the devil’s in the details; of course he does, because my world is inside of me. Has it all been only in my mind this entire time? But what time? Is it now? Is it then? Is it never? Is it important? What is the point of something if you don’t let it change you? — and this has changed me more than anything that could have happened. I have fallen in love with the imagination. And if you fall in love with the imagination, you understand that it is a free spirit. It will go anywhere, and it can do anything.

If you want to know about my life, know that it hasn’t always been this mundane background with a splash of surreal. I have big dreams and not enough ambition, big questions and never any answers. I see sweetness in solitude, but I believe in having a soft landing below me if I ever fall, and it has names and faces and unbreakable bonds that make me smile through all the tears. Some stand out more than others, but in the end it’s my safety net, my security blanket, my heart and what I thought to be my life: a bright, young thing, trying a bit too hard to inject happiness into her veins, finding warmth in the road ahead and going on short bursts of adventures to pacify her wanderlust.

I was that, and probably little more, until S happened. And he happened for long days and torrid nights, and it felt like a little lifetime, so different from all I’ve ever experienced that I’m still wondering if I’ve ever experienced it at all. Every memory of him that I cling on to for dear life knocks on my every door, window and crack in the wall, begging me to play it first; and I let go of myself and the world around me, and stop time to get lost in the sweet, secret feelings. Stains on my heart, stains on humanity’s emotional evolution, stains on the world’s history, all the ways in which S affected me are things unheard of. I know of many great love-and-lost stories, but never have I heard of such enigmatic, wild forces that come and go so quickly, changing one’s life forever yet leaving them to ponder on their very existence. Those memories are all I have now and this is supposed to be the end of the story, but strangely, it is only the beginning. My steering wheel still has his fingerprints, and I know it’s because he’ll always somehow be trapped in my world. I can never let go of the idea of somebody thinking of me as the universe itself. Ah, I like being somebody’s everything when I have never been enough for myself. There have never been any others sinking down to such depths to be dancing with all my demons. The demons, God damn the demons, spoon-fed with my fears and instead of silenced their screams burn through my veins and echo in my heart. I know, I’m such a cliché. Isn’t this ordinary life? And yes, I too want to be happy, of course. Because what else is there to be? I need to do this, I’ll always need to, much as it hurts thinking about it, because these memories make the familiar calm come back to me in the way I know that S will never do.

But I write this knowing fully well that what’s been is long gone now, and I need to drain my sadness out through ink and tears and get out of this loop. And I tried and tried to think about the world around me and the problems students have to face and the lovely lady at the corner shop who’s been running her small business for forty years now but I always, always come back to writing about him. I don’t know anything else, and I probably never will, and this is another thing I need to be ok with. I will never, ever find anything that I can connect to on a level so deep that it makes everything pulsate, as if connected to my own veins. S made life vibrant and I experienced the state of being fully alive and aware of my surroundings, of myself, of somebody else to a point it’s painful to go to, even in my head. I can almost feel the hands that can awaken all possibilities and arouse all my senses, imagination, and insecurities. I reset my mind, body, soul through him. When you feel and experience something with so much depth, everything is intensified. In my mind, I’m always going back to raw days, marvels, heightened senses, delicious ambiguity. To wherever the wind blows through our hair and intertwined fingers. S taught me about the analysis paralysis, about how seeing the good in people makes them believe it too and choose to be the good that you see in them, about never-ending adventures and the power of a strong soul.

Imagine a world where the character falls in love with the reader, where you don’t chase your dreams, but — plot twist — your dreams chase you, where books are written about silence and the things people only say with their eyes, their hearts and their vibration, and you’ve imagined the place where he comes from. The place where I think I come from, because it’s clearly not the New World of happiness and rainbows and butterflies. It’s different; it’s difficult to put it into better words. I want to follow this strange, wild creature down to the very depths of my imagination, all the way to where the magic happens — and it happens, I don’t know how I know it but I do, because I’ve never been all the way there yet but somehow I know exactly how it feels — but I’m paralysed by fear. I know its roots, I know where it comes from, and I know what it’s trying to say though. I know, because it’s the same fear we all face after all. I can almost see its rolling eyes and shaking head, hear the you-should-bes and the why-can’t-yous, and ah, the whatifs. What if my rich, vivid so-called memories are just a trick of the mind, if nothing really exists outside the edge of this New World, if the feelings I remember so well from the moments I felt most alive in are nothing but products of my foolish imagination? What if everything I think I remember is just a reminiscence of my mind wanderings to strange, forbidden places? What if S wasn’t real? What if S is real, but I never got even this far down and I’m only crazy? What if I can imagine things that exist somewhere else that I never got to? What if they don’t exist at all? The only testimony that I have are the changes my inner world went through — what if it went alone, with no man called S guiding it with warm hands and soft-spoken words?

Sometimes I don’t know if I’m making him up. I can’t tell reality from fiction. I wake up to new senses, I daydream of new adventures, I close my eyes and I live wildly and I open them and my soul collapses and I gain new experiences when I blink, and this world doesn’t live up to what my subconscious can do, but what if that’s all S ever was — if he ever was anything at all? But then there are his face, his voice, and all the things we did together than make me smile and blush and feel like I’ve already lived a life I’m proud of, and they are as clear as day to me. I just can’t remember what days they happened…

Nothing Is Ever the Same As They Said It Was


The street shines glossy black after the rain. Pavement cafés are crowded, and vehicles hiss by  their roars constantly approaching, breaking, receding. I watch them holding my breath, forgetting to blink. I am alert, but null. The restlessness of the city mirrors mine tonight, and slowly tempers it.

I’ve always enjoyed lights, noises, explosions. They came to me like divine permission to sit back and enjoy the ride. The world was happening. I wasn’t in charge of holding it together. What a relief — for an hour, not needing to be in control.

I sit in the dark and hold time in slow gear. Either the experiment, or my sanity, will fail. They are eyeball to eyeball, waiting for one another to blink. I bet on being mad. It’s late, so very late for this. I should have started earlier. I should have started sooner.

I’m not surprised how many insomniacs are out here, I’m actually pleased. And I’m not worried either, because this switch reminds me how young I’m getting and I’m almost, almost close to seventeen again; when the ice was melting and I was gently growing from its underneaths.

Raised by the street, with the sky blue and new above me, I knew how to roam free when I had to, and lie on my back in tall grass and dream in the present tense when I wanted to. Nights were dark and long and hot, like the future I was both scared of and couldn’t wait to run towards.

Troublesome, perhaps, but intriguing, surprising and refreshing all at once, I was in my captain-of-her-own-rocket days; sweet days of stitching myself together out of desires and needs, with oil-burning eyes and a heart still owning the right to the future.

When the temperature dropped and the power of inertia became tangible, I surprised myself turning into this shadow of a person sitting together with her ghost in the car, wishing she could reverse or, at least, slow time enough to figure her way out without wasting all of her young years.

Here I am, wishing it would all end tonight. It’s a compulsion, a series of quiet, desperate attempts with occasional flashes of rightness. I’d always do it  fighting to gain more time to make things better  it’s just odd that it’s become my life.

I know; somewhere along the line, the pressure sent cracks up and down my psyche and I simply fell apart. I feel bad. I feel bad in every place and part of me. I have no comforting thoughts to fall back on. Life has become days sitting in a chair, staring.

But the magic is in the hard. Hard is the new black. I talk to myself in a low, kind voice. I know that I’m still worth it. There is a fire inside me still longing to be fed. That fire is worth it. There is nothing else worth more than that fire.

How many times has it been the first time? How many times has it been the last time? Bent under the burden, I can still sniff freedom. I have not given in. I owe it to myself, despite not being that anymore.


There she comes remarkable, slightly eccentric, with her bizarre hat and toothpaste advert smile. She’s crossing the street hand in hand with a slim, hip young devil in ripped jeans and an oversized shirt. Her cool is almost tangible. She does not bleed through another’s wounds. She owns the street. She owned the night.

I, too, would have eaten those hours of being in love whole. I squeeze my eyes shut, imagining what I’d be like innovative, unconventional, romantic still. It doesn’t come natural. All I’m getting is a cynic craving to be loved, turbulent skies and the sad, numb calm after the storm. The images are grainy, monochrome and dark. I can’t think of textures. I can’t think of sounds.

My attraction to her is ambivalent. She has the power of hiding who she is while, at the same time, advertising how she wants to be seen. It makes me jealous of the god-like heights she came down from, and tragically aware of the unknowability of another human being. I can despise her intense hedonistic lifestyle all I want, but I will never know if that’s what she gets in bed with. Security blankets don’t always function as protective screens around those who sew them.

I trace him with the corner of my eye. I am not his type of girl, but near enough his type. He would give me speed. I would give my all, but there isn’t much left of it. I’d trade him what I don’t need for whatever it was from him that I wanted; that’d be fair. I do not blink when I look at them, who are no longer significant but only there, and them. My hate is mine. It belongs to me. She is merely there. A click in my head cancels boredom. I know what I’m doing, because I’m always doing it. Ah, there goes it. I lost tonight. I’m always losing it.

After a heavy sigh, I allow myself to step into the vision. I am good at projecting myself on the outside. All my friends eat sunshine, and I train in speculative fiction. Sometimes I think I could be my own imaginary friend.


I open it like a window and climb through. Inside it is home, after being gone for years. I left in search of some ideal, but reality had failed, time and time again, to come up to the mark. I will always return.

It’s suddenly me who went to a jazz concert with him and spent the night nodding along to soft tunes with eyes closed, sipping on cheap whiskey. It’s got to be me. I am the girl who lives on air and intensity alone, and I’d never stray away from hotter nights or bigger feelings, whatever turn they took; I’m with my madness all the way if I’m getting my buzz, my fix, my life.

It’s summer and soon after dawn, strands of orange all across a turquoise sky. I’m up in the mountains, sitting in the front of the car singing along with the radio, my hair blowing in the wind and my heart still harvesting my baby goddess energy. The ride is pretty, right alongside the river the whole way. I’m going to drink the ocean, again and again, and celebrate being madly alive. This has got to be me, too.

I’m reading paragraphs over and over again, because it’s too delicious not to. We have worlds we want the other to see. Somehow these very different worlds fit together. Writing down about all the things he finds on restaurant napkins, under car seats, in her refrigerator, in between, in your wallet, by accident, too late, he makes up a world of details without frames and limitations. I spend hours getting lost in it. It’s beautiful and crazy, like a miniature of life minus all the big problems. If you’re stubborn enough, you find something good to do on the way down; but the bizarre repetition in your eyes betrays your madness to others. Whatever. It’s me who sits long moments in silence with him. No one else comes near enough. It’s always me.

I’m moving forward through the day by small explosions of will and I take my hand up to my heart. My brain, too, wants to play this game and stay lost in the dream. It’s utopic to find myself again, although so far from shore. I’ll rock any boat on my way here. This is the last thing left that makes me happy-hearted, warmth ringing true inside these bones when I come for it. It’s like all is right in the world because one heart managed, despite all the chaos, to get it right. And not any heart, but my heart. Mine. It’s got to be mine.

We lie on our backs, intertwine our fingers and hold on tight once more, as though consistency can substitute for stability. I missed the girl I almost still am, the girl I will never be again.


The words come out much slower than I want them to, but I say them out loud this time; papers and devices have only ever stopped my train of thought. There’s so much left to say when you think you know how to say it all  and ah, how we turn our unsaid things into our life’s work. I’ve cleared my desk and climbed onto it. There’s only my breath left now, fogging up the window. There is no her.

Ageless and gorgeous, she is, one by one, 17, 27, 37. It does not matter. Whoever the girl crossing the street with her lover was, there is only me, and smoke, and mirrors in this world. She is just the end of the rainbow I never followed, the person I haven’t become, and I hate, because I can’t love. And it would be so very ironic if I tried to love my neighbour as myself; because, of course, most people hate themselves and I am no exception to that.

X marks the spot where I took the other path  travelled or not so much, it does not matter. It lead me astray from the plans I never even knew I’d have for myself. My anger has since turned from hot and quick to a lingering coldness. I see myself in other girls, imaginary and, occasionally, on nights like this, made out of skin, flesh, bones and stories of their own. What’s odd is that they never remind me of the person I see when I look at myself these days. They are always so very different.

I drink hot tea under cotton candy skies and think of the fleeting nature of me. I think I like that. Maybe in another life I will live roof-raisingly loud. In this one I am sane, painfully sane and aware. From behind quiet eyes I stop and pat every monster. I get them. Putting love where there is none is a hard job. Slowing down time is ever harder. I can only be bad, in the dark, as seasons go by.



I often wonder how much of the people I make up is me. I don’t believe my everyday self defines me. There are much crazier worlds on the other side of me; some still unexplored, some still works-in-progress, and some already used, abused, stretched to limits. Fiction gives me the second, third, millionth chances that life, real, fleshy life denies me, and there is nothing in this that makes me sad. I can’t take every path, but I can play hide and seek with mine.

It was never my intention to create a new person in whose skin I could have then quietly slipped into, and be a million times better at last. I was simply creating; I still am. I’ve still got it. I’ll never lose it. I have no reasons, no intentions, no master plans. I learned to feel by writing about feelings, not the other way round. I learned to love by creating characters that belonged to me, so I could love them without fear. This is how I learned intensity; first-hand, from myself, in my bedroom, in the car, in the classroom, at night, at 16, at my own pace.

I don’t like it when people get bored easily and frequently. This is an interesting planet  and, when you have no more attention to give, you are a luminous, playful, interesting person. I am who I am because of my imagination, and because of it again I am so much more.

And, like all the best quests, in the end I’m doing it all for a girl: me.

No Matter How Many of My Cells are Replaced


I write because nobody listens was the first strange little thing I noticed about her. She had scribbled this phrase on the first page of a notebook left open on the table. She had fiery red hair, wore little make up and a loose black dress. There was a homemade sign up on the wall saying We serve freshly grounded coffee, and a mild smell of cinnamon coming from her. Cinnamon girl, I caught myself smiling and quickly ordered an espresso. I couldn’t think of anything more but days with her. It wasn’t long until the lights in her eyes turned off. Ah, the implications of a smile.

Here is a map with your name for a capital would be the best way to describe her heart. Exhausted from beating for all the wrong reasons and crammed full of glorious maybes, it found a safe haven in saying my name over and over again, until the letters didn’t make sense anymore and we laughed together at the hilarity. She was loving, unashamed and courageous. When she spoke, she spoke loudly and often looked around to see if others were listening too. She liked to go to the theatre to warm up to the emotions, and never let me made fun of it. ‘We all have our security blankets,’ she said, and didn’t let me take hers away. I loved her for her strangeness, for her openness and her rawness, for how invigorating she was and for all the many tricks up her sleeve. Those were the days when life was in full force, days that seemed to start early and end never. I was mad about her. She was the one thing I would have saved from the fire, if it started to burn. But when it did, it started from within.

She rarely spoke of what was way down deep, where the forgotten things live. It wasn’t until she filled me with her sadness under street lights and asked me to walk her home, or when she curled up in a ball in the backseat of my car, or when she suddenly wanted me to leave, that I realised how much she had been disguising in kisses.

‘Pull up a chair, I’ll pour you a cup of coffee. You don’t have to disappear to prove that you are there,’ I said right before she burnt to ashes in front of my eyes. She was a figment of the most clever, ingenious, but incomplete imagination. I shouted her names from balconies and rooftops, I whispered it in pillows and in my sleep, I scrawled it in ink on the back of photographs, and I knew I will never slid over and put my arms around her sleep-warmed body or stretch across her lap again. In my mind, she will always have all the names I tried to call her back, in the light, in the dark, on the side of the bus, sour and delicious, secret and unrepeatable, names forgotten and reinvented, names forbidden or overused, all the names Siken wrote about but didn’t work for either of us.

Sunbathing in the window, bare legs, one ankle hooked around the other, eating ice cream cones and looking relaxed, hair sticky and damp hair on her neck from swimming… That image blurs all the edges. I choose not to remember her outside of it, because outside of it she was nothing of that girl. If only people were more like their souls.

There are always gaps in whatever comes to me. The world is a cynical reality where everything is nothing but a shadow of everything that could have been.


Memories made in my room. Memories made on paper. I write everything down, so I don’t forget when little pieces of my life start chipping away. No matter how many of my cells are replaced, he will forever continue to swim through my blood. Whether it will be Thursday and March, Friday and July, this year or the next to come I will never forget. I never forget, because I always write. Because nobody listens.

I gave up telling my story when I was nineteen and I had seen nearly every city in this country from a rooftop without jumping. A boy put his hands in his lap and leaned forward to kiss me, but stopped halfway and started laughing like a moron. The sky was just turning lilac. It had taken me forty minutes to explain my beliefs to him, to make him understand who I then thought I was. He apologised a couple of times only to start laughing again, and again, much harder. He thought I was crazy, but it didn’t matter because I was beautiful and if I wanted to watch stories unfolding like a play from rooftops I could. Because I was beautiful. He was the last boyfriend I had.

What came next was what I like to call the wild future, even though it’s in the past. Stumbling the streets and taking in the heat of the pavement, cars pulsing through the arteries of cities, corner store pharmacies, buses puffing at stops, going to the park at dusk and swinging high into the sky while listening to music and feeling life beating like a drum in my chest, kissing and glowing and writing on buildings and cities and skies and running all over the map, I used to be able to catch the sunlight that is now slipping through my fingers. These delicious images of when I claimed the universe for myself are still haunting my brain. I can not speak about them, so I write tens on notepads about the bright, burning lights that light my days up until nights begin to hurt, even in the giant softness of my bed.

Stories don’t deserve to stay in the quiet, but what I lived is far from a story I can tell — it’s rather a painting of the world seen through my eyes, where nothing ever happened but I happened to everything. The pure pearl of the morning sky above me, the soft, smoky-white fog which blotted out any background, sitting on a bench in the National Park with a bottle of water and watching fog float across the valley below, the colours of motor oil in a puddle of water – gold, plum, fiery orange, the smell of high pine, ice and wet earth, jumping out of a boat and splashing up the shore. I am grateful for times like these. Making silhouettes of spilled ink out of them is my essential endurance strategy for surviving the empty soul wilderness.

These times didn’t last, but they taught me where to search for a God, if there is one — and then they taught me there is one indeed.

I still walk past his house. I always seem to find my way back there. He never wondered at my anger. His love dissolved my fears for a spring, after I had tasted all flavours of fear. The intimacy we shared, fingertips tracing our shapes in the dark and hearts beating slowly to the same rhythm in the sun, strangely reminded me that there is more to life than living alone on the run. Holding him led the way to another world, a better, safer place — his heart was the door knob, warm as if he was resting his hand there to let me go in. ‘You need time and love to heal, and I’ll give you both,’ he said. I met his eyes and said, ‘No. I can’t take anything from you.’ I like easy, vague ideas, rivers of light in others, only because there’s nothing like that inside of me. One night I waited for him in the dark for two hours. Eventually, his touch came gently, reassuring. I couldn’t unclench my fists from the back of his shirt anymore.

My touch comes like a bullet. He couldn’t fill all my voids. It never got fast enough for me, and if I do slow I lose my mind. I like this sense of urgency, of self. I don’t care if they understand me now. I’m not nineteen any longer. But I’m still running.

Being a Big, Bad, Brave Artist


It’s a good title, this one. It already sounds like it belongs to what I’m about to say. This is the first time I’m writing about the artistic identity I’ve been working all my life to develop. But bear with me, this is a post meant to mirror you, the big bad brave (blogging) artist.

Crying, grinning and crazily craving intensity — to feel, document and pin like a dead beautiful tropical butterfly in an insectarium, I was always shy in the face of people who wanted to know what I am. I never knew how to define myself. Who are you? and What do you do? have always been met by an awkwardly formulated response, somewhere along the lines of I’m a journalism student, I’m Romanian, I… kind of write, stuff, I like to change the subject, ah look at the clouds and let me ask the questions here. Sure, there are lots of things that supposedly make me me, but what they really make is the cage, not the bird. Deep inside where the wild and forgotten things live, I am neither my degree nor my favourite bands. But before I start pretending I’m a spirituality expert (which, if you are interested in, The Untethered Soul will be your new best friend) …

I have always been afraid to call myself a writer. Sure, I am one who writes indeed, but I never, ever said to anybody Hello, my name is Anca and I am a writer. Perhaps it’s because I thought it sounds conceited and I was timid, or perhaps because I couldn’t support my affirmation with enough successful blog posts; the fact remains, I never, ever called myself an artist.

I grew up knowing two contradictory feelings.

One, that I didn’t have a voice. Of course, I knew it was a lie all along. There have been small times when I collided with it, but somehow they never felt big enough to shake hands with it. That time when I was 10 and my primary school teacher called me the editor of the classroom magazine; I ran all the way home, repeating the story to myself over and over again, so I didn’t forget any details before I could tell my parents. Then I was 15 and half-heartedly joined the debate club, only to win a regional competition a few months later. I felt like a champion for once, and I mean it when I say for once. I am not a competitive person, I hope we all make it. But yeah, I admit, it felt really damn good for once. Ah, I was 18 and I screamed my lungs out, meters away from Bon Jovi, next to the most important people in my life at the time, before running to the train station to get to the beach the next morning. Sweet summer escapism, cigarettes and Cola and cheap sandwiches, and nothing on our minds but being 16hrs away from home. My first place in London, my first adult decisions, the first fantastic feedback on my writings, right here, on this blog. Every now and again, the world was mine and I was the brightest star. Still, most of the time I had to put up with the constant feeling that I wasn’t ready to be a star yet; that I wasn’t loud enough, and even if I was, nothing I said mattered, not yet.

One can’t be anything before they feel it in their bones. The only real changes are identity-based changes. I had no idea what my identity was, and it was always far from me the vague idea that it might be an artistic one. After all, I was too ashamed for feeling so undeserving; I couldn’t go around admitting I am a writer. At the time, and that meant at all times, I had no idea what I was.

Ah, but the other — that I did have a voice, and a terrific one indeed. Sure, most of us grow up thinking we’re special cookies, but I felt a strong, strange kind of certainty about it. It was a voice that I didn’t know what to do with though, so I decided to keep it buried for longer, until I made up my mind. And so, always afraid of it and the things it could do, I never really used my voice; because not yet. And all the many things still unsaid, undone, undared — but so untamed, more and more every day, piled up on my shouders, feeling like the weight of the world itself; my world, at least.

“What to do with the beautiful things whose time has passed? became the soundtrack of the journey. She couldn’t find anywhere to bury beauty, because she was afraid she’d feel unbeautiful without it. The idea of creating something new scared her too. Liberating far less than frustrating, it would have only added up to the weights dragging her down, forcing her to stay. She didn’t want to stay. Staying also scared her.

Bouncing from one place to the next, she was stuck in fear. Free as a bird, with long, heavy chains around her heart. Her blood was turning colder every night, and she blamed it all on the now unavoidable winter.”

(Post here)

Today, I am 22. No more ropes. I am a writer, I have an artistic mind, and I am slowly discovering where to begin. Gaining creative confidence is hard, and it’s done one project at a time. This requires the identity-based change I mentioned. If you don’t feel like a writer, you won’t feel like writing. What would the point be? How do you expect to find meaning in the process?

I don’t know where I’m headed yet, but I know now that the most important thing is to actually do the important things. Read about them. Write about them. Talk about them. Hell, live them. You’ll learn soon enough if you can really call yourself a writer, and who knows, maybe you even start doing so.

Just as important as doing is sharing. When you share your work with others, others share their work with you. Our bubbles aren’t always inspirational enough, which is why we read fiction and scroll down on Tumblr on a daily basis (no?). The ability to make others feel important is invaluable, because only then will they feel that you are one of them, the guys deserving to feel important. Ask random people what projects they are currently working on and share, share, share the love.

Deep down I have a voice so strong that 22 years of trying to silence it couldn’t beat it, and I’m finally proud to say so. Just because it occasionally fails doesn’t mean it’s not awesome :) what about yours?

Waking Up With Stories on My Mind to Tell Nobody


You met me at a very bad time in my life, I wrote. Perhaps I would have been different in the summer. Last summer was especially beautiful, with its own set of rules carved in stone, until the last waves of August washed the shores clean and all the stones crumbled to dust.

I sipped a little more coffee and looked at the pathetic bunch of contradictions screaming at each other on paper. Pulling up my cheeks for a smile, I still can’t stop my heart from bleeding.

You see, I write with my chest open. I dip my pen in my soul and write about my dearest continents: my stories, my beloved ones, my heart’s homes. I don’t use my imagination enough, like a writer should. Instead I stick to what I know and tell the truth in its purest, most naive simplicity, then sit at home for days waiting for forgiveness and redemption. I check my mail frantically and hope for kinder words than my own from above, from him, from them. I write everybody love letters and dream of how one day they will all become a book in their hands; will they understand me then? I can already see the first page:

As you read this, you’re stepping inside. Welcome. Don’t tiptoe, don’t whisper, don’t close the door behind you. In my chest you can be crazy loud and reckless. This is how I am too.

Today I am me, because there is nothing I have left to become, no other shape to pour myself into, no other addictions left to let define me. I am me, gentle and intuitive and poetic and sensitive, giving up on my summer self, my winter self, my last years’ selves. I am me, and I am easy and a little empty, letting them all know that I loved them with all the fire in my soul, until the last waves of August washed it over.

I can hear your thoughts watching me after you read me, silently urging me not to turn silent when I should be in fact on fire. You see, I too used to be all about fun and games, until my whole life began to look like a play.

I lived for playground and rooftops and flying over clouds and cities at sunrise with an energy nobody could tame. Sometimes earthquakes happen within one’s heart; mine has always been a volcano. During those days of late night drives with my arm dangling out the window and my favourite songs on the radio, staying up past midnight with a cigarette in my mouth and watching old films, riding my bicycle across the city, trying to avoid potholes, tram tracks or dangerous drivers, looking at the glitter of lights, the lights inside peoples’ windows, the lights of cars and trucks coming the other way, I was on fire.

But today I am silent. The stones and the flames have turned to ashes and dust. I am a Phoenix; rebuilding has always been my great escape. But today I question the soil’s stability, and the climate, and the strength of my heart. I move with the seasons, back and forth but always around home, a home that’s been rebuilt so many times that it barely feels like home.

I want to explain myself to everybody, I feel that I owe my every thought to the world. It’s soul-crushing, like the waves, like the flames; like me. I smile. I will always crave intensity, but today, I don’t.

My coffee is cold, and I look around the room. This is my place, this is my book, this is me; this is my last letter for a while. I’m going away, to find myself in better places and return with a refreshed heart.

You met me at a very bad time in my life. Perhaps I will be different in the summer. 

“Listen carefully to my silence
It’s not something you’re going to hear very often

And if you do

Know that it’s either love growing in between the sounds syllables make
Or my distance”



It’s January 20something, which means that I’m back in London after my extra long holiday — and back to job hunting I am too. While working in a Sports Direct isn’t too bad an option, I can not wait to start (or restart?) my career as a bookworm in a publishing house. Ah Little, Brown I do miss you.

Until then I keep busy reading How to Build a Girl (but also, just to stay on the practical side, Thug Kitchen and Get Your Sh!t Together), planning new gym routines and kind of going to each and every (free) museum in London. The Science Museum is pretty cool! They have a piece of the moon from 1971 on display, and you can see it too if you follow me on Instagram or go all the way there.


This fabulous chick, Pixie, took some pictures of me the other day on a sunny street in Shepherd’s Bush. They are very blurry and Photoshop didn’t help, so I’ll have to see what’s going on with my camera soon. I was wearing black faux leather pants (hell yeah) from River Island, very old boots from H&M, the most comfortable winter coat ever ever from Bench and my favourite scarf from… ah. Well. From somewhere nice, I suppose. I bought it in a Debenhams but haven’t got a clue about the brand. Unfortunately we don’t own the other two beauties in the photos. One day, little girl, one day…

On another note, I’m going to post the second half of Badland in a bit, and I’m thinking about trying my luck in some competitions too. Does anyone know any great writing competitions? How about some great events in London for guys like us? No? What about brunch? Speaking of which… the best brunch you’ll ever have will be at the Surrey Docks Farm. Promise.


Don’t forget to like my blog’s page on Facebook too, because I post stuff. You will probably like it. Give it a go :)

Photoshootings with Alecsandra Raluca Drăgoi


I’ve been modelling for Alecsandra Raluca Drăgoi ever since I met her, in 2011. I have a feeling it’s because we work well as a team, and not because we live together and I’m available 24/7 for her. Here are a few pictures from two shootings we did together in 2014:

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This fantastic location is the King’s Theatre in Southsea, where we managed to sneak in right after buying the fancy dress — and right before returning it. The biggest challenge we had to face was not to rip it as it costed us pretty much all the money we had at the time. Fun!

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In front of & behind the camera ridiculous shots. We were trying to recreate a traditional Romanian look for a video with an ASOS dress and a flowery scarf. We had a lot of fun with the camera team in Shoreditch, so waking up at 7 a.m. and putting on all the make up was worth it!

A Thunderous Mind


‘Tell me everything,’ he says.
It’s getting darker outside, and his room feels colder.
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Everything, from the beginning.’
I smile and bury my head in his pillow, imagining the love that could grow in his heart for the baby I was before I became his baby.
‘I have memories from the age of two.’
‘That’s ok. Start there. I crave your beginnings.’
I laugh nervously, thinking of what to say this time. Then all I feel is sadness. I realise he is asking me who I am.
My laughter is extensity, it’s terror. If I wasn’t laughing, I’d be asking myself the same thing.

I can’t stop tracking was my veins, like travelling backwards to the speed of light on a roadmap of scars, remembering every time I got bruised, every time I got back on track. He puts his hand over mine.
‘You think that I want you to rescue me with your words, with your gestures, with your insistence, but they start to feel kind of invasive. You read my mind, then ask me for more stories.’
‘Have I just seen raw, undefined fear in you?’ he smiles, and I can sense his love for me in his voice. ‘Fear that you’ll lose your shiny newness, that you’ll lose your wonder, that you’ll become someone I will talk to my friends about, rather than be the one who I feel close enough to to confide in?’
Fear that I’ll soon stand on the street outside his apartment, calling and calling because I just need to touch him again. I nod my head.
‘Fear that I don’t see you sleeping in bed, curled up and silent with chests rising and falling with your own rhythm, and love it just enough to want you — all of you?’

When the armour breaks, I curl next to him, my bare skin impregnated with rusty traces of the metal. I don’t want to be untouchable.
We both laugh, and I feel easy, and I am happiness, shared happiness. I’ve always liked vulnerability, it’s the only land where I can grow love. But love is so hard sometimes; and so light now.
‘If anyone else was acting this way about me, I’d think they were crazy,’ I say.
There’s a thunderstorm outside, but he warms me up with hot coffee and caresses.
The world can burn, or flood.
My world numbs slightly under his touch.
‘Yeah, but the difference is that you like me,’ he replies. ‘So you like it.’

I finish my cigarette and open the window to feel the drizzle on my skin. The air was getting hot and weary inside. There are lightnings up in the sky, and he says that I, too, must have a thunderous mind at night-time; and I catch him smiling from the corner of my eye.

You Want to Talk About the Poems I Write About Us


Sometimes little things tip me into euphoria. Sitting at a bus stop at sunset, the warm wind rushing in every direction through my dark hair, over my bared golden skin. When I close my eyes I’m a mermaid. The coins in my hand are seashells. I take dips into the imagination ocean and the rest of the day feels old, as if all the things happened last year. I’m caught in an underwater current. My very own reality swallows time, and if I stayed the people who’d find me could never trace the clues on my skin of when I sank and disappeared. The scent of my soul is the smell of rainforest. The world rains on me and I come into bloom. Freedom is the missing piece of the puzzle. When everything else is making sense of the mess, this is the mess. This is the wilderness. This is the freedom in the chaos. My heart is a jungle and I am every living thing in it. I am infinite in my shapes and sounds and colours, in my thoughts and raw emotions, in my words and actions and ever-changing sense of self.

And you want to talk about the poems — flowing through my veins, slipping through my fingers, coming out of me like torrents of water  I write about us, as if they were definitions.

The Corrs — Summer Sunshine


I lived by the sea for 3 years, and I often miss the house, the people, and the vibrations of the city. Now I live 2 hours away from beautiful Southsea and spend weekends there whenever I can, but I know that it will never be the same again. The pictures here remind me of what living on the seafront was like, with the little local coffee shops near the beach and the cool evening breezes before we headed out for the night.

My outfits are from River IslandH&M and Warehouse, except for the sneakers. I was still in my I’m-not-paying-for-logos days; I wear white Converse now. I suppose London does change people, but Portsmouth will always stay my special, happy place.

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“There was a magic about the sea. People were drawn to it. People wanted to love by it, swim in it, play in it, look at it.”

Notes on Creativity, Changes & Little, Brown Book Group


“Art and love are the same thing: It’s the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you.” — Chuck Klosterman

It’s 2015 in a couple of days, and I feel that I must put on virtual paper some of the things I’ve learned this year. I hope they speak to you too, because these lesson aren’t for me to keep. I write not only for my peace of mind, but also for those just like me, for those utterly different. I write because it’s the only real voice I’ve found to have so far. The others are often silenced by the mundane, the worried, the loud and the obnoxious, the in-the-way, the not-now, the if-only. Writing is crystal clear, and reading is freeing; and connecting  connecting is bliss. Those just like me make me happy, and those utterly different make me feel alive. I love humans the most when I take them in through their writing, because I understand the process behind. I know just how much of myself I show in my stories, and can only get excited at the prospect of reading theirs for the same reason. Writing, even when edited, is raw when life is too often fine-tuned. Of course, there are always the wild moments, but they are rare and precious and slip easily through one’s fingers. Either way, it’s all in the rawness for me. In words, life and everything in between, I crave it. Therefore…

1. Creativity is the greatest form of rebellion

‘I started making jewellery as a side project, and it began to take on a life of its own…’

‘I want to involve readers into better journalism…’

‘… if we make a promise to feed ourselves emotionally, creatively, intellectually, and spiritually each day, we begin to trust and respect ourselves.’

I found these quotes in Schön! during my first days at their offices, in The Guardian, and on BrainPickings’ amazingly inspiring website. They speak to me of the importance of creativity in one’s life, but remind me that there’s more to it than having a rich, vivid imagination. Dreamers must be doers too. We need genuine passion, motivation and discipline, because creativity by itself gets tired after doing the first trick.

I myself am a very creative person, yet sometimes weeks go by and I don’t write a single thing; and I wonder, am I still allowed to call myself a writer then? Because I like to think of myself as one, if not for bigger reason than at least for being one who writes. But if I don’t, then what right do I have to call myself a creative?

If you keep its flames burning however, creativity is life’s greatest fuel. It gets you out of bed in the morning, it dresses you up as the person you want to be, it shines through you while you eat your granola bar, and it works with you, at you, as you.

I believe there is no stronger force in the universe than the creative force. Ah, but love I know, I know. Like you, I too love love. I’m clearly not a writer But love comes in many ways, and if it comes as weak, lazy love it often dies out, extinguished by the almighty force of boredom. Love has to be strong to be worth it.

Boredom is rage spread thin. Creativity is rage sprinkled with pixie dust. Now go do, so that you can be.

‘Being an artist is not just about what happens when you are in the studio. The way you live, the people you choose to love and the way you love them, the way you vote, the words that come out of your mouth, the size of the world you make for yourselves, your ability to influence the things you believe in, your obsessions, your failures — all of these components will also become the raw material for the art you make.’ — Teresita Fernández

2. Nothing is worth it if you aren’t happy

I moved to London this year, at the end of summer. I borrowed money from friends, family and the people I had done cleaning jobs for during university, and spent them all on moving into a cramped house in the suburbs of London. It was a reckless, impulsive and ultimately very dumb thing to do.

I ran out of money by the second month and couldn’t work because I was focused on doing internships, so that I’d get my dream job and start living the good London life. It’s been about 5 months of gaining experience now, and I have many questions to ask my summer self, What were you thinking? perhaps being the main one.

Was it worth it? Time will tell, I suppose. Maybe the new state of my CV will impress the guys at Penguin and they’ll let me be an editor by March. But would I do it again? Probably not. I wasn’t happy, and I’m still struggling to claim my happiness back from the claws of my new shoulda-been-fabulous life. And would I carry on if I had to do it some more in 2015? Definitely not.

Lesson learned: I might not be a special cookie after all, but I’d trade that for happiness any day. I think parents make a big mistake letting their children feel like the chosen ones. There is nothing wrong with feeling young and while and free from the pressure every once in a while. This is hard to remember in your fifth month on unpaid work in Europe’s most expensive city, which you’re doing because you too are special and you’ll show ’em that.

You don’t need to be the brightest light in the darkest night, you need to be happy; and if you still want to be that, at least take it from there. Don’t rush into things that are clearly way out of your reach. Go up gradually, take space, then take what is yours. But don’t rush all the way up because nothing there is yours yet and you’ll just be sent downstairs again. There’s no elevator either, fyi. Tough luck if you’re in a hurry — you’ve been warned.

3. The only real changes are identity-based changes

Say you want to be a rich entrepreneur, or a fitness freak, or a great person overall. These are things we all want to be yet few of us become, because we believe them to be outside our comfort zones and there’s a very long way to them and oh look a cookie. Hint: you might be on the dark side if you find cookies this easily.

Great things require work, luck and a little support from our families, friends and pets at the end of the day. But they require a change of mindset too. If you want to be X, you can’t just do Y and Z and expect the magic to happen. It won’t. You’re not X, you’re just you trying to keep up with doing some cool things. Whatever you want to be, you can’t start with the actions straight away or you will struggle, complain and fail unless you’re very stubborn and determined. If you’re like most of us, maybe start by changing your mindset first and see how that goes.

If I want to start being a fitness freak, going to the gym 8 times / week perhaps isn’t the wisest first thing to change about my life. But if I change my values (into new ones such as health, exercise and well-being — after all, if you don’t believe in these things than why would you even want to start?), my attitude (I smile while I run to the bus stop!?), my daily habits (I <3 smoothies) and then my actions (I join the gym), I’m not going to be a lazy bum in temporary disguise anymore. I think, feel, and be a girl who loves fitness, and that will be one of the many definitions people will give me. It’s cool though, I’d like to be known for this.

4. Strength and warmth make the world go round

Strength gets things done. As a personal quality, strength is a measure of how much a person can impose their will on our world. People who project it command our attention, because we know they can use their strength to reshape things that affect us all.

Warmth is the sense of belonging and feeling cared for. It is what people feel when they recognise they share interests and concerns, the sense of being on the same team. If strength is about whether someone can carry out their intentions, warmth is about whether you will be happy with them.

We respect strong people and like warm ones, and therefore, need to learn to be both. It all sounds very obvious, but some of us like to reflect on such things some more. If you’d like to read about it, Little, Brown published Compelling People and they’ve done us all a big, big favour.


5. I love working in publishing

On this note, my time at Little, Brown, winner of the Publisher of the Year Award, has been fantastic. I worked across their marketing and editorial departments before flying home for Christmas, and not only do they have the coolest office but they’re all wonderful, wonderful people. I learned what life is like behind a big publishing house’s doors and I loved it, which has only made me even keener on getting a job in a similar place when I’m back in London.

By the way, this is what you walk out the door with if you do a publishing internship. The book on my bed, I must mention, hasn’t been published by Little, Brown, but HarperCollins. That too I got after a work placement and they are also very lovely.

What about you? What have you learned? What do you want to share?  ☻

How to Do Fashion When You’re Not Quite That Kinda Girl


After recently going out with the lovely Pixie, whose blog you can find at Journaux Des Fétichismes, and taking some great pictures together in Regent’s Park I began to think about having a Looks category on my blog. This is something I have always wanted to do, but somehow never felt ready. While enjoying other fashion & lifestyle blogs, I always struggled to understand how they work.

Who follows these girls (& guys) around, eager to capture their every turn as they’re strolling down the street?

Where do they get those great outfits from and how could I ever afford to pay for new ones twice a week, in order to post them online?

More importantly, how do they find the time and get into the right frame of mind for a photo shoot when life is so & so & so?

I still don’t have the answers, so apologies if the title tricked you into thinking I do. To me, they’re locked boxed in locked boxes to this day.

But I have figured out that, if I don’t know how other girls do it, I know how I can. I live with a photographer, I have friends, family and a very patient boyfriend, and I also happen to have my very own great camera. At the same time I can’t complain much about the things I can find in my wardrobe, which perhaps doesn’t make me much of a fashionista, but bear with me. I have some sets of pictures already, and I’m sure I will only have many more in the future  because at the end of the day, I too am a girl with a love for all things pretty when I’m not the cynic that I usually am.

Here’s a first set of pictures then, all taken by Alecsandra Raluca Dragoi in Southsea right before our big move to London. My outfit is from ASOS, and my shoes are from Zara. The bag is from… well, let’s just say it was very, very cheap.













If you’ve gotten this far, thank you. I’d love to read your comments and opinions and, if you have a blog where you post looks & such, tips. How do you do it? What’s your goal? And how do you stay on top of your busy schedule to do fun things that brighten your day?

About #SYPconf14, Good Timing & Pixie Dust


I figured that, since I am a (NCTJ-qualified) journalist, I’d better start blogging about my opinions. It’s funny, I have a degree that gives me the right to talk… I must mention, though, that it’s 2AM and the only reason why I’m not in bed yet is, well, JackFM. God I love JackFM.

One year ago I realised that I don’t want to go into journalism. When I applied for university, I wanted nothing more than to graduate as already an investigative journalist (or travel journalist… hey, the world is big and the possibilities are endless.) As for the reason, there is a quote I found during my studies that says it better than I ever could. Here it goes:

I knew I didn’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer or go into business. I wanted to be a writer and bring down the bastions of power that caused common people so much suffering. That’s what I thought in 11th grade. I guess I never grew up. I still feel that way.” (Robert I. Friedman, investigative journalist)

Beautiful, isn’t it? Yet after a long dissertation on the representation of humanitarian crises in the Western Media and exploring theories of media influence while growing more and more cynical, I realised I am not ready for it. I see journalism, real journalism, as a high and mighty thing still, but deep inside me I just know that right now is not my time to write about such things.

Therefore, one year ago I decided to work more on not only my knowledge but also focus, drive, creativity and inner strength before taking the weight of the world on my shoulders, and investigated :) other routes. I stumbled over the Society of Young Publishers‘ annual conference in Oxford and decided that it might be worth to give it a try, although I knew nothing about the world of publishing at the time and lived 4 hours away in good old Portsmouth. I liked books, ok? I read from my grandmother’s newspaper when I was 2, this would impress any potential employer, right? I dutifully bought my ticket then, messaged my only Facebook contact from Oxford that I was coming, needed a place to stay overnight and it was nice to finally meet him, and packed some clothes in a hurry. What was I thinking? Ah, but sometimes the mind only gets in the way…

Publishing really  seemed like a dream come true, the best of both worlds; I would be around great literature and perhaps utilise my writing skills every now and then. I left the conference and Oxford animated, enthusiastic and ready to go for it, all engines burning. My dream to work in the world of books that, I like to believe, shape the world just as much as newspaper do and yes, I know just how debatable my statement is, was beginning to take on a life of its own. I immediately went back to reading tons of books, researching the publishing industry in every way, getting better at InDesign (because ebooks) and generally growing more and more comfortable with the terrifying future awaiting for me at the end of July.

After graduation, I made the biggest efforts and managed to move to London in what should never, ever, be defined in my biographies as a dream place, and spent days and nights drinking coffee and applying for entry level jobs while counting down the number of days left until the rent was due. I had made a promise to feed myself emotionally, creatively, intellectually, and spiritually each day, and sticking to something this noble brings us, I believe, trust and respect for ourselves.

Yet feeding my creativity  became increasingly harder as I couldn’t find work that mattered, to the point that I nearly ran out of it — and began to forget what that work should be. I got dangerously close to the point where I didn’t know what I wanted to do anymore, and just wanted to do more living for a while. This is ok to say as a 22-year-old, isn’t it? Not so much when you’re a planner like me, and are not rebelling to go on a round-the-world trip but running out of funds. I actually like having a vision, making lists, seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, and even keeping my room tidy! New life in London was messy, chaotic and lacked any sort of direction. The number of articles I began to read on neuroscience and NLP slowly started to scare my housemate…

The publishing world didn’t seem to want me and I started to resent it too. I went back to journalism and worked in a tiny office for a Romanian newspaper, and later interned for Schön! magazine. In the meantime I also got experience in digital marketing, book marketing and social media marketing… but you can read about all this on my LinkedIn, which looks incredibly neat for what it was all really like.

Last month I stumbled over the new Society of Young Publishers‘ annual conference, this time taking place at the London College of Communication. Ironically, perhaps, it was also going to be the day after my internship with Schön! ended. I took a deep breath and got my ticket, biting my lips and fidgeting in my chair. What was it gonna be this year, then? More information, more networking, more ah-me-too-where-are-you-interning? Whatever is was going to be, I was going to be there with a smile on my face though (which was hard, given that I went to see Interstellar with my boyfriend the night before yay to surprises!) and that I did. I left with a notepad full of notes, contacts, a better understanding of what I must do and inspiration running a mile ahead of me, playing hide and seek with my slightly unimpressed self. But behind every cynic is a disappointed idealist after all…

It’s been a few days since the conference, and there are still a few days left until my marketing placement with Little, Brown Book Group starts (which I was offered in July, so it had nothing to do with #SYPconf14) and I’m taking my time to map out the future again. I know I didn’t study publishing, but neither have others. Frankly, I believe that there might be better journalists than me out there if only they were given a chance, fancy degree or not. It really all comes down to passion, as there are few things you can’t learn from Google today (future doctors, go to school, please!) In the media industry, skills are transferable and departments work closely together. I’ve spent one day at the HarperCollins offices (yes, I begged for that day for months and it included an episode of stalking in another city; I literally chase my dreams, ok?) and I was the last one to leave. I didn’t do the most interesting work I had ever done, but somehow, something, somewhere felt right. I went to #SYPconf14 a little scared, and came out with an open heart that wants more of the books world, more of this, whatever this is.

A part of me still wants to be a big bad investigative journalism. More of me wants to work with manuscripts and upcoming authors right now. I listen to my heart, because I know I’d be hearing it screaming later if I didn’t. Is this my path? I want it to be now. I don’t know if I’ll walk it forever. I probably won’t be walking forever, but for as long as I am here, for as long as I am awake and unafraid and strong and bold and young and free to choose, I choose to do what I love — and do it more. Better days will come; or I will go after them. Ready for me, marketing department?

My Mind, My Playground


“I have fallen in love with the imagination. And if you fall in love with the imagination, you understand that it is a free spirit. It will go anywhere, and it can do anything.”  (Alice Walker)

His name was S. Was, and sometimes I’m not sure it even was at all. This is the story I thought I’d never tell. It’s also my favourite story of all. There are nights when I’m still burning with passion for all the things we did and all the more we could have done. These nights I don’t sleep at all. I toss and turn in my bed for hours, ardent and wanting and alive like I’ve only been since I met him and until everyday life happened and took him away from me. Other nights I sleep well, and I wake up laughing at all the others when I don’t.

‘What am I losing sleep over?’ I wonder as I stretch and think of hot coffee and outfits, ‘Stories with ghosts? Grow up, will ya,’ I tell myself and get up quickly, careful not to start questioning us again, doubting myself again, and generally thinking of all things that will never, ever happen again. The truth is that this story should be buried six feet under with me at the end of what I hope it will be my long and beautiful life, but day after day the same thought hits me — that life can never be as beautiful again.

‘There is blood singing in your veins, yearning life and wilderness and new hearts to be tamed. You can do so much more, you can be all that you want. Leave the ghosts where they belong — in your overactive, stubborn, chaotic mind, and move on from the stories you knitted with theirs; they aren’t part of your story, they aren’t part of anything. They aren’t — and that’s that,’ I try to convince myself as I brush my teeth, roll my stockings up, put on some pretty flowery skirt and head out for yet another day in the land of make believe. It’s funny they call it that, when S was the only one who ever truly, deeply believed in me and he wasn’t even from around here; or around here. I shake my head to shake off my sadness. How did our paths ever cross, and how can I be so sure they ever did? I am not. I have never been, but those new feelings must have come from somewhere. When and where are questions that I am unlikely to ever answer; but the what is so clear to me that every night when I lie myself to sleep and every morning when I laugh at my split personality can’t make up for half the truth I know in my heart.

He is as real as it gets to me, and this certitude warms up my entire body. He lives boldly and vividly in my world. Ah, the devil’s in the details; of course he does, because my world is inside of me. Has it all been only in my mind this entire time? But what time? Is it now? Is it then? Is it never? Is it important? What is the point of something if you don’t let it change you? — and this has changed me more than anything that could have happened. I have fallen in love with the imagination. And if you fall in love with the imagination, you understand that it is a free spirit. It will go anywhere, and it can do anything.

If you want to know about my life, know that it hasn’t always been this mundane background with a splash of surreal. I have big dreams and not enough ambition, big questions and never any answers. I see sweetness in solitude, but I believe in having a soft landing below me if I ever fall, and it has names and faces and unbreakable bonds that make me smile through all the tears. Some stand out more than others, but in the end it’s my safety net, my security blanket, my heart and what I thought to be my life: a bright, young thing, trying a bit too hard to inject happiness into her veins, finding warmth in the road ahead and going on short bursts of adventures to pacify her wanderlust.

I was that, and probably little more, until S happened. And he happened for long days and torrid nights, and it felt like a little lifetime, so different from all I’ve ever experienced that I’m still wondering if I’ve ever experienced it at all. Every memory of him that I cling on to for dear life knocks on my every door, window and crack in the wall, begging me to play it first; and I let go of myself and the world around me, and stop time to get lost in the sweet, secret feelings. Stains on my heart, stains on humanity’s emotional evolution, stains on the world’s history, all the ways in which S affected me are things unheard of. I know of many great love-and-lost stories, but never have I heard of such enigmatic, wild forces that come and go so quickly, changing one’s life forever yet leaving them to ponder on their very existence. Those memories are all I have now and this is supposed to be the end of the story, but strangely, it is only the beginning. My steering wheel still has his fingerprints, and I know it’s because he’ll always somehow be trapped in my world. I can never let go of the idea of somebody thinking of me as the universe itself. Ah, I like being somebody’s everything when I have never been enough for myself. There have never been any others sinking down to such depths to be dancing with all my demons. The demons, God damn the demons, spoon-fed with my fears and instead of silenced their screams burn through my veins and echo in my heart. I know, I’m such a cliché. Isn’t this ordinary life? And yes, I too want to be happy, of course. Because what else is there to be? I need to do this, I’ll always need to, much as it hurts thinking about it, because these memories make the familiar calm come back to me in the way I know that S will never do.

But I write this knowing fully well that what’s been is long gone now, and I need to drain my sadness out through ink and tears and get out of this loop. And I tried and tried to think about the world around me and the problems students have to face and the lovely lady at the corner shop who’s been running her small business for forty years now but I always, always come back to writing about him. I don’t know anything else, and I probably never will, and this is another thing I need to be ok with. I will never, ever find anything that I can connect to on a level so deep that it makes everything pulsate, as if connected to my own veins. S made life vibrant and I experienced the state of being fully alive and aware of my surroundings, of myself, of somebody else to a point it’s painful to go to, even in my head. I can almost feel the hands that can awaken all possibilities and arouse all my senses, imagination, and insecurities. I reset my mind, body, soul through him. When you feel and experience something with so much depth, everything is intensified. In my mind, I’m always going back to raw days, marvels, heightened senses, delicious ambiguity. To wherever the wind blows through our hair and intertwined fingers. S taught me about the analysis paralysis, about how seeing the good in people makes them believe it too and choose to be the good that you see in them, about never-ending adventures and the power of a strong soul.

Imagine a world where the character falls in love with the reader, where you don’t chase your dreams, but — plot twist — your dreams chase you, where books are written about silence and the things people only say with their eyes, their hearts and their vibration, and you’ve imagined the place where he comes from. The place where I think I come from, because it’s clearly not the New World of happiness and rainbows and butterflies. It’s different; it’s difficult to put it into better words. I want to follow this strange, wild creature down to the very depths of my imagination, all the way to where the magic happens — and it happens, I don’t know how I know it but I do, because I’ve never been all the way there yet but somehow I know exactly how it feels — but I’m paralysed by fear. I know its roots, I know where it comes from, and I know what it’s trying to say though. I know, because it’s the same fear we all face after all. I can almost see its rolling eyes and shaking head, hear the you-should-bes and the why-can’t-yous, and ah, the whatifs. What if my rich, vivid so-called memories are just a trick of the mind, if nothing really exists outside the edge of this New World, if the feelings I remember so well from the moments I felt most alive in are nothing but products of my foolish imagination? What if everything I think I remember is just a reminiscence of my mind wanderings to strange, forbidden places? What if S wasn’t real? What if S is real, but I never got even this far down and I’m only crazy? What if I can imagine things that exist somewhere else that I never got to? What if they don’t exist at all? The only testimony that I have are the changes my inner world went through — what if it went alone, with no man called S guiding it with warm hands and soft-spoken words?

Sometimes I don’t know if I’m making him up. I can’t tell reality from fiction. I wake up to new senses, I daydream of new adventures, I close my eyes and I live wildly and I open them and my soul collapses and I gain new experiences when I blink, and this world doesn’t live up to what my subconscious can do, but what if that’s all S ever was — if he ever was anything at all? But then there are his face, his voice, and all the things we did together than make me smile and blush and feel like I’ve already lived a life I’m proud of, and they are as clear as day to me. I just can’t remember what days they happened…

Writing for Schön! Magazine


The journalism internship I’m currently doing at Schön! Magazine is proving to be quite challenging, but also fun and inspiring. I get to write about fashion, beauty and events, things I never tried to write about… except for a feature on Diesel’s new collection in my second year, and the fashion page for a London-based Romanian newspaper. Hey, maybe I know more than I think I do! Here are some of the articles I’ve worked on in these last few weeks, to make up for all the creative writing I’m avoiding to do lately… I have access to my boyfriend’s Netflix account, if that counts as an excuse. #BreakingBad ?!

The Glenlivet Releases the Winchester Collection

Schön! Magazine attended the exclusive launch of The Glenlivet’s The Winchester Collection, a series of single malts of unparalleled quality. Taking its name from current Master Distiller Alan Winchester, this exquisite collection of rare whiskies is anticipated to become one of the most sought after collections.

The London-based meet and taste event introduced Vintage 1964, the first 50-year-old single malt scotch from The Winchester Collection. Just 100 bottles of this inaugural release will be made available around the world, with each priced in parity to $25,000. The very first bottle is going on sale at one of the world’s most prestigious retailers, Harrods, this October. An undisclosed number of further releases from The Winchester Collection will follow, with Vintage 1966 confirmed to be next in line.

“This release marks a milestone for The Glenlivet,” Alan Winchester told Schön! “Casks of this age and quality are such a rare thing these days that I’m immensely proud to introduce the first of these rare vintages of preserved stocks from the distillery’s rich past.”

Craftmanship being taken just as seriously, every element used to design the perfect vessel is hand-crafted – from hand-blown glass to the inclusion of precious materials. Acclaimed Scottish glass artists Nichola Burns and Brodie Nairn  have been inspired by The Glenlivet’s history to create the design. The jewel-like stopper was made by internationally acclaimed silversmith Richard Fox, whose past commissions have included Formula One and Rolls Royce, and the beautiful presentation cabinet has been created by award-winning furniture maker John Galvin.

Nikki Burgess, Global Brand Director for The Glenlivet, explained that “The release of The Winchester Collection sets a new benchmark in single malt. We are excited to share this spirit, the product of 50 years of craftsmanship, with whisky lovers and collectors alike. Vintage 1964 allows us to tell a new chapter in The Glenlivet’s rich history.”

If the first bottle of Vintage 1964 goes on sale at Harrods this October, the launch date for the next release from the collection has yet to be announced.

Lisbon’s Fashion Legacy Showcase

If you don’t think of Portugal as one of the fashion industry’s key players yet, we say think again. October shed some light on the creative and commercial potential of this Iberian land, bringing to attention Lisbon Fashion Week – the most important Portuguese fashion event, a project supported by Lisbon’s city council and ModaLisboa Association that brings together the national and international press, VIPs and fashion lovers. Aiming to promote creativity, not only in fashion, but also in adjacent areas, such as photography and set design, it takes place twice a year – March and October – and showcases the work of talented established and emerging Portuguese designers.

The 43rd edition of Lisbon Fashion Week revolved around legacy, a theme which explored the idea of reconstruction as something which doesn’t necessarily equate to oblivion, emphasizing the fact that the new doesn’t erase history.

The events took place from the 10th to 13th of October, proudly presenting collections that anticipate the summer of 2015, new names in the fashion industry, pop-up stores of emergent Portuguese brands and an exhibition of fashion photography.

Sangue Novo, the platform created by Lisbon Fashion Week in 2003 that aims to introduce upcoming national talents to an international audience, introduced ten new designers at Pátio da Galé on the 10th October. With collections that set a very high standard, the ambitious young designers celebrated style, creativity and innovation. Olga Noronha, Cristina Real, Rua 148 and other up-and-coming designers revealed their collections on the catwalk, presenting fresh perspectives on the creative legacy that Portugal aspires to leave.

One of the designers, Inês Duvale, presented streetwear-inspired collection, Karma, featuring imprinted circular shapes in a cold pallet of white, greys and dark blues. Duvale interpreted the idea of circularity with concentric circles splashed on garments – symbols of protection – and circular earpieces that completed her strong vision. Inês works with designer Ricardo Andrez, a regular at Lisbon Fashion Week, who

showcased his own collection Chaser the next day at Pátio da Galé. Inês was later selected to showcase her work in June 2015 at FashionClash in Holland by Branko Popovic.

The three day event also featured Wonder Room, a pop-up store of emergent Portuguese brands, at Sala do Arquivo, in Lisbon’s City Council. Three of the designers participating in Sangue Novo’s show, Catarina Oliveira, Cristina Real and Nair Xavier, also exhibited their collections at Wonder Room.

Immediate interpretations of the shows were on display at Workstation, an exhibition of photography Capturing the highlights of the event as it happened. Workstation started on the evening of the first day and continued until the end of Lison Fashion Week Legacy at Paços do Concelho, showcasing photographic impressions of the occasion through the work of four young, promising photographers: Arlindo Camacho, Carla Pires, Pedro Duarte Jorge, and Ricardo Santos.

This autumn, Lisbon chose to believe in the power of ongoing projects, renewed energy and the conscience of what is valuable and essential about its culture. Legacy is to give and receive, and Lisbon gave faith, trust and a strong voice to its newest emerging designers – and now Schön! believes in them too.

Atelier Scotch Tailoring Line Available in Own Brand’s First Store

Amsterdam-based brand Scotch & Soda opened its first store last week, on Heiligeweg, in the heart of the Dutch Capital. With the store, which will stock the tailored line Atelier Scotch, the house is expanding its horizons. Focused on contemporary yet decorative formal dressing, Atelier Scotch is a stylish collection defined by bold combinations, luxury, and a love for details. Scotch & Soda is led by an international team of professionals that warmly welcomed Schön! at the opening. The spectacular opening saw local and international press, as well as devotees of the brand, discover the refined and subtle interior of the new store.

Presenting clothes bursting with unique mixtures of structures, styles and colours, that still stay subtle and elegant, it showed that this is a name to remember. Atelier Scotch has a serious tone to it, yet combines materials and fits that haven’t been seen before, resulting in a varied, distinctive and non-pretentious line.

The team behind the collection was inspired by the world’s style capitals and launched a strong collection that plays with contradictions, but keeps it classy. It launched at Pitti Uomo in Florence in January 2014, targeted at the gentleman who is “cool, not stiff; comfortable, but dressed up.” By boldly positioning itself in the fashion world this autumn through its signature collection and a fresh new store, Scotch & Soda is paving its way to a bright, promising future.

Head to Heiligeweg 45, Amsterdam, to discover the new Scotch & Soda store.

 Loulou de la Falaise; Rizzoli International Publications, New York, 2014

A new release has become the first monograph to celebrate the life and work of Loulou de la Falaise, the style icon and muse to Yves Saint Laurent who became the embodiment of French chic. Born in 1948 to an English mother and a French father, Loulou’s chic style, powerful spirit and ability to transform anything into something made her an influential fashion icon and a breath of fresh air to the world of Parisian haute couture.

”I’m not a very strict person,” she once declared. “I’m more of an extravagant type of person. I’ll keep on mixing because it’s more inspiring.…I think fashion goes through phases. I just wait for them to be over.”

Celebrated for inspiring and accessorizing Yves Saint Laurent’s collections, she moved to Paris in 1972 to work with the designer. For almost forty years, she built her professional reputation designing jewelry and accessories both for Yves Saint Laurent as well as for her own line.

indexSlim, beautiful and artistic, she almost looked like a fashion sketch. She loved parties and cigarettes, but so did everyone else in Paris back then. Fun-loving and popular on the Paris social scene, Loulou was a glamorous figure with perfect proportions, seductive voice and bohemian flare. Oscar de la Renta said he always felt reassured when de la Falaise would declare, “I love that.” And although she loved socializing, she was almost always surrounded by Yves, her husband Thadée Klossowski de Rola and their daughter, Anna.

Loulou’s appetite for fashion and beauty continues to inspire millions today. The elegant and fun style icon really exemplified what French chic is all about. This volume is her life in over 400 pictures captured by legendary photographers, alongside conversations with her intimates.

 Marianne Faithfull: A Life on Record; Rizzoli International Publications, New York, 2014

Edited by the artist herself, with accompanying handwritten captions, the new photo memoir pays tribute to the style icon that Marianne Faithfull has been for decades. Discovered in a coffeehouse in 1964 by the manager of the Rolling Stones, Marianne quickly became the sixties’ ingénue with big blue eyes and an angelic expression, the rock’n’roll queen with the hit records in a leather jumpsuit, the blissed out girl on Mick Jagger’s arm. While her story is not exactly a fairytale, it certainly is a fascinating journey from innocence to experience. Published to coincide with the fiftieth anniversary of the release in 1964 of her groundbreaking debut single “As Tears Go By,” this book includes never-before-seen snapshots from Faithfull’s own archive, specially commissioned photographs of her Parisian home, and iconic images by the world’s best-known photographers. It is a brilliant, complete, revealing celebration of an extraordinary force in the popular culture.

Her singing, songwriting, acting and presence as the it girl of the sixties have made Faithfull an undisputed icon. As a singer, she collaborated with Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd and Nick Cave, and as an actress she worked alongside luminaries such as Alain Delon, Jean-Luc Godard, and Sofia Coppola. She has been a magnet for other artists since she was a 17 year old fresh-faced girl who sang like an angel, her voice confirming her image. The most striking thing about her during the sixties, decade that Diana Vreeland named the “youthquake” — the first great explosion of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, was her innocence. Other iconic girls of the sixties, like Veruschka and Edie Sedgwick, never looked innocent. Despite being carried to the top of the charts, when she turned 19 she followed the path set by her high-born parents and married her Cambridge-educated boyfriend. This duality fascinated the London press even more. As Salman Rushdie writes in the foreword, “With her big baby-blue eyes and her angelic expression, she looked as if the darkness of the ’60s couldn’t touch her.” Which, of course, foreshadowed that it would.

51T9GBEXhiL._SY300_Just one year later, aged 20, Faithfull decided to leave her marriage to be in love with Jagger. But the Sixties had many casualties and, by the time her new relationship had ended, her heroin addiction was ready to cost her custody of her son Nicholas (from her first marriage), her house, and nearly her life. What happened next, however, was remarkable. She returned for a second act in the late 70s, as a punk phoenix beating drug addiction, homelessness, cancer and hepatitis with her confessional comeback album, Broken English. Her new, deeper, rougher voice, the voice of a life full of rich experience, and her new smile reminded of the grandeur of the survivor.

Half-century since her first hit, the beautiful mature woman she is today is ready for a series of projects to celebrate her fifty year recording career. There’s her photographic memoir Marianne Faithfull: A Life on Record, but also a new album. ‘Give My Love to London’ was released in September 2014, soon to be followed by a 12-month world tour in 30 European cities. Ready to set out from her home in Paris, she notes simply in the book’s final pages: “What I love best is making records and performing. My motto: Never let the buggers grind you down.”

Scenes of Speed and Light


When nobody was looking, I buried my ring in the sand and left it for the waves to carry it far away. I didn’t want him and the symbols of his stupid, selfish love and, if I really had stopped to think, I might have thrown my own body to the sea.
Every cell at the surface of my skin still carried his fingerprints, and every ounce of blood running through me contained all the feelings under the sun next to memories of him, as if swimming together in a sea of so many others.
But I could think of only each second in front of me, hearing the wind and the silence rumbling in my mind and breathing in and out this dark morning of my soul.
All my storms, like silk cold aversions, had stopped at the edge of me and left my heart dry out and die. Who knew? I knew. He was the bad guy, but he already walked through all my doors marked private.
‘Baby, come here,’ he said putting an arm around my shoulders. ‘The guys are leaving, shall we go with them?’
I shrugged. The truth was that what we did with our day didn’t matter all that much, because we both knew where this was really going. Ah, all the things that were going to happen, all the things that were never going to happen anymore.
I don’t know, baby. You nearly killed me.

Fingers in my fists, mind as cold as heart. The Siberia of my lands, the winter of my years. He chose a bad time to visit.
‘You need two things to heal — time and love,’ he said to me, ‘and I’m going to give you both.’
Yes, I need time away from you and your stupid, selfish love.
I heard him swallow hard, and his tension didn’t move me. I nearly congratulated myself for the lack of emotion. New skills, always a pleasure.
It was midday and we were in the park. We came to look for squirrels. We had already been through all of this on the phone, when he asked me to meet him. I screamed at him for a little while before I said yes. I was drained.
‘I know you want to say no, but you also want to say yes. It’s the yes that truly matters. It’s the yes you’ll come back to in the end. You’ll stay. I know you’ll stay. and I’m not going to force you but I will be here, and somehow, you will be here too.’
I was going to turn to look at him, at that smug face that nearly crashed the car and yet still had the courage to talk to me like that, but I didn’t want to learn hate all over again.
‘You hit me,’ I said quietly, almost to myself. I nearly died.

People and trees and the city’s mystery and magnificence receded on either hand like the dark sides of a tunnel. I was walking — no, I was running back home, eyes and face full of tears. My head ached and my body burnt and I was bleeding. He hit me, and when he started the car I screamed and I screamed at him to stop but he would only scream louder and I was afraid that he was going to hit me again, so I stopped after a while and crossed my fingers so hard that it hurt. I didn’t want to die yet, I didn’t want to trust my dreams to a younger generation. I wanted to live to scream another day, to create another day, to claim, take, and love every day of my little life even if it meant being without him. Better, even. He was laughing like the drunken idiot that he had been all night when he lost control and crashed. I don’t know what happened to him, or to the other people. I opened the door and ran and ran and didn’t stop running, not even when I felt that the sticky liquid on my face wasn’t just tears —ah, whatever, a little blood. But he hit me, and then he nearly killed me. But he loved me, and he asked me to be his for the next seventy years or so. But I was running too hard to follow my thoughts, and as I ran I lost them all on empty streets. Never will I think them again, was the last one of them, and I had never felt fresher, wiser, easier in my then-bleeding skin.

‘Are you crazy?’ I laughed and leaned across the table.’You don’t ask… this… in front of everybody, I…’
I blushed, for sure.
Everybody was staring, and I was feeling slightly awkward, embarrased and forced to give an answer I hadn’t thought through.
‘Relax, baby,’ he said. ‘I’ll make the yes come in time. Everyday will be a yes day, baby. Just give me a little — he put two fingers together —trust, this much every day.’
He took another sip of his beer and she nudged my elbow.
‘You just got the luckiest girl at the table,’ she whispered in my ear.
‘You think?’ I smiled, and felt my cheeks turning red.
She gave me a long, intense stare, and then proceeded to gracefully ignore me.
When I went to the ladies room, I glanced in the mirror at my bronzed skin and long, gold dress. I looked pretty stunning. I knew the answer in my heart.
He just got the luckiest guy in that room.

‘So… how did you guys meet?’
Oh, God, I hate this question.
I ran my fingers through my hair, nervously.
‘At a bar,’ I finally said and giggled.
‘Oh yeah? Did he just pick you up randomly?’
‘No, no. He was… in a fight. Outside. Jesus, Helen, I hate our story.’
Helen’s eyes opened widely.
‘He was? Did he win?’
‘Yeah… kinda. Well, I dragged him out of there. Me and a coupe of others. Then he was lying on the ground, talking about how the other guy was being difficult and all that jazz, when his eyes stopped on me.’
‘And… before he was saying that we was going to wait for people to start leaving, then beat his ass again.’
‘He did that?’
‘No, he let me call a cab and take him home.’
‘Oh, wow. He moved fast. With you, I mean. And you did too. Wait, you did that? You’re not like that. What about your stranger danger theory? My God, you collected your boyfriend from a fight?!’
‘Ah, well,’ I smiled, feeling like a badass hero in front of you-never-have-enough-fun Helen, ‘he can never be a dangerous stranger to me anymore.’
‘He doesn’t have to, honey.’

What I Don’t Say


M still thought this is how I was born. He is terribly naive. At times I wished he would realise that my cells didn’t decide to man up as they were putting me together; it was my thoughts many, many years later.

‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked me, and I shrugged.

Why not? I thought. I have been enough of a coward to last me for the rest of my life.

‘You are like a beautiful tomboy or something. Raw and real and, at the same time, young, pretty… sensual.’

‘M, listen up,’ I said, trying not to blush, ‘there’s only one secret to it all: listen to your heart, or you’re going to be hearing it screaming later.’

He looked unconvinced. I put on a small smile and kept walking. Ah, you can only love them…

That night I thought of how I could have stopped right there, giving him all the secret access codes and passwords to switching from loneliness to solitude. Take him home, up the spiral staircase where all my paintings are hung, each one in order with their colours progressing like the seasons. Home, where I break the spell with my mind, where I dream hardcore dreams and I’ve got all the world I need at my fingertips. Home, where I amplify myself, where even the way I breathe is different — like flames coming from the mouths of all the dragons I tamed on the way to building myself a home. But I could never take him there.

He would have had to design his own. Mine would be nothing but wood and pretty carpets to him. There are no real secrets either, at least none that applies to two people at the same time.

‘I’m afraid of decluttering, forgetting, losing’, they always say.

Just listen to your heart, I say to myself, almost as a reminder that they are wrong. Your heart will never forget the essential. You don’t need to keep the real deal to stay tall, once you’ve had it. Experiences stay in you, you move out from them.

I wanted to say it out loud to M, but it’s hard to tell someone to keep a void inside themselves, so that they can travel light and have space for words of wisdom overheard in crowded bars and images of beautifully made-up sentences remembered from skim-reading. They never listen.

That night, I also asked myself for the first time whether he really loved me or not — but that was a stupid question to ask. I knew he did. Uncertainty would have only meant that he didn’t. When somebody loves you, you don’t find yourself curled up on a couch late at night, questioning his love. Nobody calls you at three in the morning just to tell you they don’t love you anymore, and he used to call me at night quite often. He did love me, of course he did and I longed to be his and began to plot strategies to love him best. But could he love me best? People rarely see past my quietness and he almost unveiled me to bare skin, where I am a volcanic, boyish little girl that no one else but him and I can see. Yet he doesn’t understand it. He can’t understand my nature. He still hasn’t got a clue about who I am at heart. And when I listen to my heart, I am infinite.

But who can listen to other hearts?

Raw Writings

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1AM, ripped jeans, black, fast cars, a cold beer, trip hop, grey areas, stubbornness, a puddle of mud, breezy weather, warm fingers up her thighs, street lights, dark curtains, milk spilled on the kitchen floor, up-on-the-counter sex, memories, frozen yoghurt, make up kit, white shirts, dawn, warmth, tenderness, silver lightning, eyes wide open,

a strange mixture of elements that work together against all odds,


A mess.


Forget your head. Forget your heart. Forget your world. Happen, with me. We are nothing more than what you see. Take your answers from my presence and ask me no more questions. I am under no obligation to make sense to you.


I’m a visual creature, always looking for more mental breathing room.


I want you to stay.


In lazy ocean waves in the heat of summer and good vibes and wine and texts and car rides and films and spontaneity and chances and helping hands and kisses and missed calls and expectations and food orders and trips and night that never end; so much love I’m being sent and I don’t know how to honour it.

A bunch of troubled people who still give the best they can, a moment so intense it feels eternal, hopes lost and roundabouts and big decisions and moving boxes and houses and outcomes and life trajectories, like a girl version of Mr Nobody choosing possibility over lost possibility and asking herself what-if questions twenty four seven.


Neon lights and glasses of wine, noises and words and Garbage’s Run Baby Run, his hands, a whisper, body heat and kisses I never knew before tonight. Triviality and getting lost and living in the moment, the present is all that matters, always paddle your own canoe, sharp teeth and laughing sounds and special effects and too much to drink. Night after night and day after day until all the joy leaks out of my mind and I’m left alone with a cold Corona on a windy summer evening. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not close to anything. I’m floating, but I’m not airy and light and easy like a fucking Sunday morning. I’m a flock of questions marks flying back and forth and eventually in circles.

The writing on the wall is in ten-foot fluorescent orange letters. Get out.

Get out.

Get the fuck out of here.

Get out of my head.

Get out of me.


❝ Talk to me like I’m the night.
Everything you say will just be
swallowed up and I’m the only one
that will know, okay?
Tell me things only exhaustion
could coax out of you.


I don’t want to be the girl of your dreams. I want to be the girl of my dreams.


‘Stay for the good seconds,’ I tell myself and bite my lips and look outside, trying my hardest to take a trip outside my personal bubble and respect your point of view but the more I understand it the less I love you, and the more I want to cry for being so weak and you being so self reliant. I’m either alone or in great company but you are a great company and yet I’m always alone. Here, have my heart. Fuck you for having my heart.


❝ How odd, I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.

How to Sneak Out of Your Second Story’s Window


November rain is cutting through the stillness of the day, as a reminder for them to be present — a reminder that they are finally together, even without much to say, and that maybe they shouldn’t drift apart from each other yet.
It’s still early, and conversation is hard to hold. Their voices are breaking too often. They sound nervous and uneasy, like cold, timid souls clinging to their comfort zones. Nobody can tell they used to be lovers, and they can’t tell if they are ever going to be lovers again.

But she looks at him like he is glowing. His presence is the small bliss of her morning. He leans back in his chair, arms folded behind his head, and watches her drawing patterns on the table with the tips of her fingers. She is surprised to find him grinning, not knowing he is remembering her drawing circles with her fingers across his back. He always liked to watch her draw — and she was always in a rush to start or finish a sketch, from what he remembers — and wondered where she got her ideas from. The few times he asked, she turned around, her soft brown hair curled like smoke in the air, shrugged and put on a naive face that filled him up with feeling, like warm water rising up his body. A face she put on many times, to protect answers she didn’t want to give; and he went back to his novels, and his plans about how it was going to be. It was, of course, going to be wonderful, he thought every time. But since he came back, he realised he doesn’t know how to pick up the pieces anymore. He wants to tell her about everything he saw in his journeys, all the experiences he had and all the people he met and all the towns he got lost in only to come out as a cleaner, better, stronger man. This was, after all, why he left in the first place, but now that he is back he doesn’t know where to begin to make the puzzle where his life out there and their life back here fit together nicely, creating the wonderful picture he dreamt of so many times.

The coffee warmed her entire body. She likes watching the brown sugar melting into her drink, and the hot steam rising up from it. It’s half eight in the morning and, if on most Saturdays she’d rather be asleep this early, this Saturday is special. She fought the magnetic pull to crawl back to warmth and dreams and splashed her face with tap water from the kitchen sink. During all those months she daydreamed about him coming back, about the rumble of his car and his enormous backpack with maps and diaries and perhaps little gifts for her poking out. He would have buttoned up a white shirt and wore a smile for her, as if those months of being away only served to prove how strong they were. But instead, she woke up to find him in a café near the train station, and they are sitting quietly in a cloud of smoke. At first, she felt anxious and wanted to ask him lots of question; but she has been waiting for too long to stain their first date with stupid meaningless words and reveal the nothingness that’s been filling the air everywhere she went. She’s been counting down months to be here, and she wasn’t going to ruin it. In the end, what she always loved most about them as a couple was how they didn’t need artificial smoothness to be comfortable around each other. She thought their silence must be the proof that that was back; and then refused to think about it again.

Little over a year ago, she lived for nothing else but their world and her art. She was amazing at erasing the contours of her real life and infusing herself with magic. She sprinkled their world with high hopes every morning and got him used to goodness, and he saw her as a different kind of explorer — the kind that could soften abrupt beginnings and loose ends, escape wanderlust, avoid exorcising the abstract inside because she could embrace the unknown. She was wonderful in a warm and meaningful way that he always admired and secretly envied. She was kind, easygoing and peaceful to watch at work. She’d paint sunlight and shades, and skin and words and light, and every time she showed him another finished canvas it felt like Christmas day. Later in their dating days, she told him that he makes her come alive as a wilder creature than she’s ever imagined herself to be. But as much as part of him wanted her to be that, more of him wanted her to stay the same beautiful, blue-eyed, calm girl he fell in love with at the fun fair near the ocean. When he decided he was going to leave for a while, it was the first time he saw her upset, angry and, above all, scared. She begged him to stay; told him about all the plans she’d made in her head and never dared to share with him. He laughed quietly to himself, and she thought he laughed at her plans but what he laughed at were his. He knew that going away was selfish and, after all, stupid, but he was not going to wait another year. Something told him that she was still going to be there. That she was still going to be here. But like the guy who said you can’t stand in a river at exactly the same place twice, he somehow knew he was never, ever going to find the same beautiful, blue-eyed, calm girl he fell in love with at the fun fair near the ocean again.

Her soul was far from her shore too, but in a different way. Her paintings speak for her – they are like marbles thrown up into the air. She leaves you wandering and working out the pattern, and moves on to the next one. He never understood them, but liked them all. They were beautiful and incomplete and strange — just like her, and he knew he could fall in love with her a thousand times, once for every new painting and new bit of soul that she’d reveal. He liked her mysterious nature and her love for open endings and multiple interpretations. He wasn’t like that; he was a planner, a doer. She was like water, running down his fingers and dripping down from his skin to the ground. He didn’t like their silence; he was losing her in between the minutes.

Her finger tips are still lightly pressing down onto the table, like they used to dig their nails into his arms. He clenches his fists.
‘I’m really happy to see you,’ he finally says.
He knows he’s fighting against one year and four months, but feels determined to drag her back into the story. Although, none of them is any longer in it. They both have new stories, and to leave them for an old, unfinished one is to dangerously rewind time and thoughts. But her eyes sparkle, and he can’t think of parallel lines anymore. They are finally here, together. This has to be the one that leads to infinity, with them on it.
‘I don’t know what to say to that,’ she answers. ‘I’m happy to see you too, but this feels so much like a dream. It’s like you’re going to vanish in a minute, and I’ll be left staring at happiness particles floating into the air like confetti.’
‘Mel, I am back,’ he says softly, ‘and I am not going to vanish unless you ask me to, and maybe not even then. I’m ready now to share everything with you, and I want you to share everything with me.’
She puts the mug back onto the table and lets out a big heavy sigh.
‘I haven’t got as much to share as you. This would be unfair —’
‘No, it wouldn’t.’
‘To me.’
‘The more you’ve lived and the more you have to tell me, the less I feel that my paintings still mean anything to anyone other than me. It’s an indescribable feeling —to let imaginary worlds form onto paper and then pretty them up, but that’s all I can do. Frankly, it’s all I want to do, too. ‘
He watches her lips moving, fascinated.
‘You wouldn’t know this, though, because you’re a traveler; but I’m not, and I haven’t got much to say.’
‘Listen, we’ll tie up the loose ends. I’ll make a rope or a ladder — don’t laugh — and come rescue you from negativity. I’m back, just like I said I’ll be. You can take your colours with you, I’ll take the maps and albums and we’ll build something beautiful out of photographs and imaginary corners of the world. I’ll tell you all the stories and you’ll paint them, and somebody will feel inspired and write purple, poetic prose about all this. It’ll be like reinventing the wheel, but make it even greater. What do you say?’

She doesn’t really say anything. She drinks her coffee and nervously suggests that they go for a walk. What he doesn’t know is that for her, it’s getting late and her boyfriend is waiting to have breakfast together downtown, before his book signing at their favourite library. It was there where she met him. He thought she was the most beautiful woman in the room, and after the speech he invited her for coffee the next day. She blushed, but thought of her boyfriend and, in a firm voice, said she doesn’t have coffee with strangers. He didn’t seem to like her answer, so she had to add that she liked his new book nevertheless — which was true, anyway. His face then brightened up and he said that reading a book is like drinking a coffee with the author, and vice versa. She couldn’t think of another excuse.
He holds the door open for her and the sun hits him in the face. She makes a joke about how unpredictable the weather is, and he tries to laugh. The broad daylight makes everything that took place inside feel rather surreal and embarrassing. It’s still cold, and she slips her hands into her pockets. He wanted to hold her hand, but wasn’t quick enough, so gives up on that thought. Her face looks fresh and beautiful and he can’t think of anything smart to say. After a short and awkward silence, she moans about the low temperature and suggests they could meet up after lunch. He agrees and she kisses him on the cheek, then turns right and quickly walks away, checking her phone. He almost wants to follow her home, on the short narrow streets he used to know so well, but doesn’t. Instead, he walks down to his red car in the otherwise empty car park, crashes in the driver’s seat and lights up a cigarette. He has to think of a way to win her back before midday, and before another man sweeps her off her feet with better words and better plans than his.


Every concern Mel had during the time he was away was magnified by being unable to contact him. She made herself a promise that she wouldn’t try to find him and she kept it throughout the one year and four months he was gone. At night she would lie awake, making up strange scenarios in her head. Sometimes, he returned and asked her to leave with him. Other times, he didn’t even return; he would have found his inner peace somewhere in Asia, or South America, and she never saw him again. Most times he came back, after one year or maybe two, and pretended nothing happened, nothing changed. She would then have to make a decision, and it would be a tough one, so she secretly hoped that either the first scenario would come true, and quickly, or the second one.

As much as she tried to forget, something inside her kept burning with a low blue flame next to the memory of him. Every now and then, she had a lot of short, bright flashlights in her heart — like a lighthouse reminding her that, no matter how much she tries to swim her way out of the best story she’s ever lived, she is never far after all. It was like swimming around in circles. Maddening. And full of hope.

Mel was alive and sometimes, life hurt. At first she would simply snuggle up on the sofa and close her eyes, reaching back to catch hold of the girl who embodied all the strength she thought she’d have in this life. It didn’t take long to know that it was all a lie. She never lived up to becoming the hero of her childhood’s dream. She was like every other woman — in love, and unable to be light. But unlike most women, her burdens were eased by the openness and intensity flowing through her veins. Strangely, she never thought of this. until she met Adrien.

On their first date, she wore a blue dress that fell to just above her knees. He thought she was glowing and never suspected that she might be unhappy. In fact, it was when he told her that the way she spoke sounded like a love letter to life that she realised he had won her over. Many women fancied him; he was a handsome, charming author driving a 1970s Mercedes. There wasn’t room for many doubts. But most importantly, she thought, he wasn’t going anywhere, and was as serious about life as he was about his prose, which is unusual for a young writer. As the night went on, her regrets became more soluble and her unfading smile, more genuine. Their first time together was promising and she sincerely liked him. As he drove home, he could still feel the taste of her cherry red lipstick and the way her smile forms on his lips. In a world where his people and his gods have been slowly but surely dethroned, one by one, he could for the first time reinvent divinity by covering the outside with the inside. And she was all over.

Curled up in her bed, late that night, she thought of painting again, packaging the blogged novels she’d been writing and buying a car of her own – all while gazing at the map of the world glued to their wall.

The Girl Who Could Be Queen


The old wooden staircase, the black bricks in the wall and the large plants on the sides of the stairs, all gave her the chills when she first entered the building. Her body felt heavy, as if wrapped in layers of questions and blank spaces she couldn’t shed for she knew she’d find them again at the top of the staircase — the questions, wearing his perfume, and the blank spaces, hers.
When in between two floors she hesitated again, she slid down the wall and took a notebook out of her tartan bag. She opened it carefully and placed it on her knees, gathering her hands into fists and squeezing with full force.

I know it by now, it said on the left page next to a drawing, I don’t know how to deal with grey areas. I want either intense black — like a crust over the world to keep me safe in the dark, or unstained white — like the oak flooring in my little studio flat. Like the white canvas of the new beginning. Like the friendly what-ifs that don’t put full stops to my stories just yet.
Mel breathed in and looked up. Somebody was coming down the stairs. She could hear heavy footsteps getting closer and closer to where she was.
But does anybody paint colours anymore?
She took a brief, hurried look at her drawing and smiled at the feeling she got back. It was the sketch of a person in a field, with the stars and the moon going through their chest and out their back to the sky. Every time she looked at it she felt immediately connected to her world — so much hers that it couldn’t be shared with anybody else, not even through good writing. Words are sometimes mere reflections of things that can’t be contoured; force them out and you end up with a shapeless ink stain on your blouse, over your beautiful wild heart.

Her breath became fiery again. She got up and took a few shaky steps, pushing the notebook back into the bag.
On his way downstairs, Gary bumped into her. He was surprised to find someone in the hallway. It seemed to be silent when he locked the door.
‘Hey there, stranger,’ he said, smiling at her with kindness. ‘Do you live here?’
She glanced at him and quickly looked away. She was the kind who valued going internal so much that it was always hard to unzip her skin and step out into the storm again.
‘Nah, I’m here to visit my…’
She seemed a little unsure to him.
‘My boyfriend, I suppose,’ she then mumbled.
Gary thought about it a little, not taking his eyes off of her. The girl in front of him seemed stubborn and a little confused, but stubborn anyway; as if she knew what she was there for without having convinced herself that it was the best decision.
‘I see. Well, since you’re not sure what he is to you, let me just ask you a question before you tell that to him — you might not want to. So, what is it that you want him to be to you?’
‘Ah, the answer to this question always trips me up,’ she smiled.
‘Yeah, they say that women don’t know what they want,’ he laughed and looked at his watch.
She had a nice feeling at the sudden and quiet remembering of her troubled days, when meeting strangers in pubs and talking over beers for hours happened often enough to remind her of the beauty of the unknown — often dressed up as handsome men carrying half full glasses to her table, whose name she would never care to know.
Gary had another four minutes to get to the end of the street and meet Olivia. He could spare another two.
‘Did he bore the hell out of you?’
‘I guess you can say that. He kept trying to trick me with cocktail parties. I’ve almost lost touch with who I am.’
He refrained from asking who she was.
‘Most people are on their way to sorting their lives out by making decisions and stuff, shouldn’t you be doing the same —away from those you already know you don’t want?’
‘Yeah, but sometimes that is me.’

Gary was tall, had short brown hair and green eyes, intelligent eyes of the kind that Mel couldn’t read but wouldn’t stop staring at. And she loved that. He was wearing a suit and a briefcase, which also intrigued her, but she didn’t ask any questions.
‘Are you trying to figure me out as we speak?’ he laughed, and she realised she liked the sound of his laughter.
He realised he liked her seemingly laid-back nature.
‘Not at all,’ she said, blushing. ‘I’m not looking to label you in one of the categories of people I’ve met so far. I don’t do boxes, frames and happy endings. I’d love to know a few things about you, but only the things that you want to put on the table. What you decide it’s relevant about you is probably the most relevant of all.’
Gary felt lost for a second, and wondered who her boyfriend was. But he only had about a minute left, so he decided to ask her something more personal instead, the kind of thing that stays on one’s mind until they can tell a complete stranger and only them about it — if she ever felt like a fraud on her bad days.
‘No, never. You are just as strong as you exhibit. When I’m weak, I’m weak. That’s how strong I am at that very moment. We’re different people at different times. That’s why I don’t believe in figuring each other’s every detail out.’
She said that with a smile, from as far as he could remember, and waved goodbye to him before running up the stairs.


Olivia was angry, but tried not to show it. She knew that Gary would eventually notice and talk her through it without her explicitly asking for it. Yet surprisingly, he didn’t. He seemed lost for words and walked with her with his eyes fixed on the ground.
‘Baby? Is everything okay with you?’ she asked, worried that he might have had reflected at their last argument.
Olivia was light and easy. She wanted to enjoy life without getting in too many troubles, and knew that sometimes Gary liked to start fights on her shallowness in his attempt to change her. She desperately wanted to avoid him going in too deep again.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Listen, tonight has been a little stressful for me — family problems and all — so I might be quieter than usual. Let’s just try to have a good time together. What do you want to do?’
‘I don’t know… it’s hard to think of something on the spot. It’s very cold too.’
‘I’m only asking you where you want to go for dinner and drinks, Olivia.’
Olivia frowned and let go of his hand to scratch her head. He looked at her face and didn’t like the confusion she showed.
She could be queen, I suppose, Gary said to himself, so bright and bold and stunningly beautiful — but she chose to be fun instead. The kinda girl who thrives on sunlight, dystopian novels and bubble gum. I hope she never rules the world, I hope she never rules her world. I hope she always stays friends with chaos and lets others draw the lines, for I bet she never even sees them. Boundaries can’t keep her safe, can’t keep her at all. Nothing exists until you acknowledge it. She doesn’t need control, she wouldn’t even know what it does.


This is impossible, he thought. This is exciting!
The second time she entered the building, she’d had her inner lights flashing up for days and nights. She ran all the way up to the top floor and knocked heavily on his door. What was she thinking? She wasn’t. She didn’t need to. When she trusted her senses, she became a lighthouse for herself and could never stray away. Nobody ever questions a lighthouse. She had no doubts in her mind.
He’d had troubles concentrating on the most mundane tasks. Every now and then, he’d be making connections or linking ideas — unrelated to their encounter, of course, when the memory of her suddenly showed up in between them. Then, just as quickly, it vanished the way her real persona did that night.
‘Hello,’ she said standing at the door, swinging a leg. ‘I’ve been missing you a little, so I thought I’d come see you.’
‘But we’ve only met once, haven’t we?’ he tried to laugh. ‘By all means though, have a seat,’ he said, choking on his words, and pointed at the burgundy leather desk chair.
‘Actually, we’ve spent hundreds of hours in my head,’ she chuckled softly a moment later, spinning in his chair, ‘being amazing. If only you could log in and watch. Gary, right? I saw your name on the door.’
From the outside looking in, it was just another brightly lit room. Behind its closed windows, two silhouettes seemed to be having a good time. But on the inside, eclipses and short circuits were taking place. His heart was racing, hers was thunderous by nature, but stopped the storm to catch her breath in between words.
He didn’t know what to say to her, other than mumble a ‘How do you do this…?’
She looked him in the eyes and remembered how much she liked him —

‘My imagination alone is enough to pour dynamite in my veins…’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘…to add some extra sparkle.’

– but didn’t know quite know how to say it to him.

A Neon Sign That Read Exit Was Glowing in a Bar


“My mother taught me the distinct smell before the rain, the promise of cleansing.
Didn’t anyone warn you
I’m what natural disasters are named after?
I am a river,
good luck controlling me
good luck slowing me down.
There isn’t an ounce of age
to my soul.”

Michelle K., Aries in the Morning


During their first month of dating, he often asked
‘What are you made of?’,
and his eyes were always wide and hungry.
She would only smile strangely and say
‘I have no idea’,
and kiss him with hot burning lips.

Her body felt like a flame dancing between his palms; after all, being around Mel had always been like playing with fire, but instead of burning him alive she burned it all clean. She was consuming, and he was hallucinating. For as long as he stayed, everything on the inside of him turned into an empty room with white walls, sunlight blazing through soft curtains onto the wooden floor and a vision of her, spinning around barefoot in his favourite white and navy striped shirt.

He thought he was in love when he was only on his way to it. All her combinations of twenty-six and spaces eventually sounded like a seductive Behold, I’m showing you a mystery. They found him still young and curious, like when he was twelve and went to a dockyard for the first time, excited at the promise of a tangible infinity. She was his ship, his dockyard and his sea now. After all, she was in his arms, like an exclamation, like an open road to forever, like a reality that if ever lost, he would have had to make back up again.

And his summer bloomed out of her tight grips.

Unlike other women he knew, she seemed more than sweet beginning and bitter endings, the only moments that shone. She was content, she was aflame, she was real every step of the way, every day of the unending summer. Whenever he touched her, her skin had the same temperature and every time she spoke, her voice sent the same shivers down his spine. He wanted to decipher her, but she was one of those magnetic people whom you would never dare to ask where they take their magic from, because they would look genuinely surprised and simply ask back, What magic? She was so alive in his hands that he believed in her force, and her strength, and everything that came out of her mouth. Even her silent presence could fill his voids with an energy that blocked any further thinking or doubting. She was truth, a suave, elegant truth that allowed no what-ifs and no lies a man can tell himself to forget a woman.

‘I can’t imagine myself going anywhere where there is no trace of you,’ he told her one night in July.
She nodded and smiled, while flickering through the pages of his words albums.
‘Happiness can be found anywhere,’ she said. ‘You only have to look for me.’
‘Is that so?’ he laughed.
‘Listen, I like your stories and the way you collect and group them. I find these files fascinating. Why do you write like this?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like the world is going to end tonight!’ she smiled. ‘Your words come out so strong, I feel like reading fireworks shapes into the night sky; and you are more of a cloud, darling.’
‘Am I?’
‘Well yes, you live like you’d rain on every parade if I wasn’t there to smile your way out, don’t you? I dare you to say it isn’t so.’
‘In your stories, you leave no room for daydreaming. You explode!’ she laughed, and he knew she was laughing at him. ‘But I’ve seen you at parties, at the local store, at night-time binge eating. You are not a man of such extremes. So why do you write like this, hm?’
‘I might just like writing as much as I like you,’ he surprised himself saying.
‘Oh, explain that to me.’
‘Well, writing is like loving you— it comes from a place so deep inside that there can only be truth in it.’
And I think I like who I am there, a lot, he thought.
She smiled for a while, and eventually said, ‘I like the very best of you.’
‘But what about the worst?’
‘Ah, but who needs that? I don’t want it, and you don’t like it.’
He raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to say something, but she stopped him.
‘Be who you are beneath the bullshit,’ she winked.

In the now what? time of the night, when she was asleep in his bed, he slowly moved his hand towards her. She moaned a little, then went back to her dreamscapes.
If he learned anything from her, was that everything heals under the energy of passion. Energy that doesn’t move is dangerous, and he was the living breathing proof of that. She was a small war, fighting for and against everything in her world, always exhausted at the end of the day. She dreamed in colours and fidgets and sounds, while he lay awake next to her, struggling to find the words to define and sort out the chaos. He always came out bare-handed, but found himself wrapped in a veil that carried her smell. He could then rest assured that a gloriously free-spirited woman had chosen to spend her nights with him. This could only mean that he was worthy in her eyes. Fears couldn’t creep up his spine like spiders any longer, and only then he could sleep. In the morning, his silent war was all gone.
His biggest fear was a sudden death-by-mundaneness, a sharp knife that life would twist in his flesh at any moment as a final defeat, before they even had the chance to inspire each other. He had never praised cynicism until he became it; and his stories about superheroes and Mel’s approval were his only escapism from apathy.



‘Don’t you have a world to see?’ she snapped, then paused to think. ‘But your gift is turned inwards,’ she continued in a steady voice, ‘no wonder the flow of your life is backed up. You really don’t have a world to see, do you? You just sit here and group your stories that nobody gets to enjoy anyway.’
‘Mel, writing is like this. You wouldn’t know, you only live.’ he groaned.
‘That’s not true, I write too,’ she said and lightened up again, as if sadness was never on her list.
‘You write? What do you write? And how is it possible that you’ve never shown me anything?’
‘Ah, but don’t get me wrong. I don’t write like you. You live through writing and only live a fraction of the life you could be living. I only write a fraction of the time I have in this life…’
‘But why haven’t you shown me?’ he cried.
‘Because you write beautifully, and I write hurriedly. But even so, I understand writing. I just don’t understand you.’
‘That wouldn’t matter to me. Did you ever write a piece about me?’
‘Of course not, I don’t write about people. I write about the sensual experiences that I have.’ she smiled.
‘The what?’
‘Paintings, open fields, houses on the South coast, morning light and shadows on my skin. The way such things feel to me. And you know what not writing about you makes me feel?’
‘Light,’ she smiled. ‘You are so dark, like your dashboard lights went out. I feel like I have torrents of light coming out of my skin. Like I could throw off sparks over the whole world. So I wrote those bright little descriptions of things that make me joyous. You write fantastic stories, but they only make me sad. If that’s the goal of writing, then you’re a terrific writer, but I’d rather keep it on the bright side of life. Do you know what they say about photography?That if you want to know what somebody loves the most, you should look at what they photograph. I suppose you can say the same about writing. You value the intensity of one’s misery, crave for other worlds, love complexity.’ She paused again to look at him and smile to herself. ‘Guess I just like the open highway of my life.’

It was cold that night, windows closed all over the city. He could only think of pinning her down with his body and pretend that she was his.
He didn’t know how to say to her that he felt like a void disguised into a man, a man who sought to sew wings to his back with her blood and bones as thread and needle to fly away from his own nothingness. But of course, even if he knew how to say it, he would have never said it, because he knew the power of unwanted words. Hers, for example, reminded him of being in a hotel room in a beautiful European capital, where whatever they went through and whatever they did, they still had to return to their room, and the wallpaper dispersed with heavy words all the beauty they might have gathered in their souls. Death by mundaneness, and stabbed by her.

He always knew that the intensity of his sadness was something he had chosen himself, as a substitute for the intensity of the happiness he couldn’t put his finger onto. He had to bring himself to feel something, so that he could write and that he could live. It was hard for him to love her, he then realised, and he probably never really did. She was fluid, poetic and a little crazy, his ideal self’s kind of woman; but much as he tried to be that, he never was. He only let her touch his writings, because she was clean and beautiful and light, like ready to vanish into thin air but still going through his most precious possessions on the floor of his bedroom. But she wasn’t more than the illusion of a promise made to him, by someone he almost invented. He was fascinated with her beautiful being bursting with intensity, but never forgot that his could only come out as words onto paper, or loving her — and that had suddenly revealed itself under the shape of a question mark.

That night, he asked her, ‘But do you love me?’
and didn’t let her look away.
She said ‘Of course’,
but said it so quickly that she sounded like somebody else.

Either way it was hard to define who she was, because from the first glow of summer — their first date — to the coldest night of the year, she had been a storm of a girl, a June to December, a back and forth sway between everything he ever believed in and everything he still rejected. This made her highly attractive for the extremist hidden deep inside him and highly deceptive to the sad man holding her messy blonde hair on a winter night.

‘But I can’t love you,’ he finally said, ‘How do I make it work…?’
Her eyes were beautiful, and a little restless, like the eyes of a little girl who had to go on vacation with her family when her pet was sick. She seemed to have nothing to add to that, and he couldn’t stop thinking that from then on, Mel would become more and more of a memory in the next year. A memory so alive, that it would almost have a life of its own, but still a memory.
After all, it was high time for him to admit that she was never more than a movie trailer playing in the dark, a neon sign that read Exit glowing in a bar, his favourite singer’s voice fading at the end of his favourite song.

‘Talk to your demons,’ she said a little later. ‘Some of them are really nice. I’d like to have a chat with them one day.’

Making Writing More Visible; A Question Mark


As part of my degree, we are asked to design and produce a magazine in InDesign, so I’m using ISSUU as inspiration for my spreads. On one occasion I came across this article, and although my intention was to focus purely on the layout, I couldn’t stop reading. It talks about the reasons why authors are often overlooked and what both they and their publishers can do about it. I’ll be honest, it made me jealous that it wasn’t me who wrote it, so I tweeted Jonathan McAloon and asked him for permission to publish his piece on my blog. I hope it inspires you as much as it inspired me to rethink book publishing.

Vanity Publishing (i):

BOOKS NEED TO GET VAINER if they are to compete with the suave digital innovations of the book trade. Books need to care about their physical appearance.

I recently went to the Newcastle Launch of Richard Milward’s new novel,Kimberly’s Capital Punishment at the TynesideCinema. Richard is a Middlesbrough writer whose debut novel Apples(2007) earned him the moniker of ‘enfant terrible’ when he was twenty two. After a reading from his new book (which was enough to demonstrate his wonderful surreal lyricism) there was a screening of the author’s favourite film, Polanski’s Repulsion. But the star of the showMilward’s novel – the object itself – which was on sale in a limited edition format.Milward calls Kimberly‘a multiple choice novel.’ The protagonist dies half way through and the reader is invited to roll a dice to determine which of six possible endings/ afterlives awaits.The limited edition has no front or back cover – it is unbound – and instead fits intosomething more like the sleeve of a vinyl. There are three hundred of these available, each having been decorated with drawings by Milward himself. The standard paperback was not to be published until weeks later.

If you are like me and love physical books, something like Kimberly should give you hope.This is how print is responding to digital. And digital, for all its ease and cost-effectiveness, can’t give you somethingthis beautiful.Books that care about their appearance are the way forward.

But I’m faced with a problem straight away. I desperately want to read Kimberly – it has been designed to whet a reader’s appetite – but it is so beautiful I don’t want to spoil it. And because of the bespoke aspect; one of a few made with one-off artwork from the author, part of me wants to keep it pristine forever, never touching it. It is s a collector’s item of the future. I know that I will wait for the paperback to come out so that I don’t feel like I’m besmirching a piece of art.

But I also know that the only way books can fight digital is by being better objects – ones like Kimberly.Lee Brackstone, Milward’s editor at Faber, has blogged: ‘If literary publishers are to survive, not only as arbiters of taste, but as the connective tissue between authors and readers, each and every book and the world we create around it must be invented anew.’

Every book must be invented anew. Here is something for budding writers to think about.

Brackstone’s aesthetic is shared by Visual Editions, an independent publisher who produce striking books where authors collaborate with designers. They think ‘books should be as visually interesting as the stories they tell,’and are behind the latest novel by Adam Thirlwell: a young writer who, like Milward, has been called an enfant terrible. At twenty four, he was put on the noughties’Granta list of twenty best young British novelists before his debut Politics was published. Kapow!, his fourth book, is set against the Arab Spring. To follow the revolution readers have to ‘revolve’ the book this way and that to read columns of text printed in different directions. Here is a book whose appearance comes directly from the way it is intended to be read. A book like this is beautiful but it is clever as well – it has a strategy. It can’t be called an advertising gimmick because it is implicated in the form of the book. The author and the publisher are of one mind.

A book isn’t there to inspire reverence but to encourage reading. From now on, books need to be beautiful but above all tactile. Authors and publishers need to think of ways to make books attractive throughout the read – on the inside pages as well as the covers. The idea of the one-off / limited edition run encourages the ownership of books as objects but gives digital the upper-hand as far as practicality is concerned. The idea of books that you wouldn’t dare touch could in some way speed the obsolescence of print that people are fighting against. At the moment, the literary world is predicting and fearing a future where physical books are the passion of a handful of antiquarian connoisseurs whileeveryone else uses an e-reader because it is ‘cheaper’ and ‘easier.’  But for me, and for many other book lovers, the beauty of physical books is the way they bear witness to having lived and having been read. There is that old cliché that a which smells like a book and is scrappy with underlinings and notes has a personality. What we really mean is we have personalised it. But this has always been the case: a book’s having a personality won’t save it from digital. It has to start being more proud of the way it looks, too.

Vanity Publishing (ii):

WRITERS NEED TO GET VAINER and learn to be better performers. Why is there no such thing as a rock star author?

In most of the arts there is an expectation that the artist will involve themselves in the PR side of their art as well as the work itself. Visual Artists, actors or musicians get to create public personas in order to transmit their art to an audience or in some way continue to influence it once it leaves their hands. Tuner Prize winning potter Grayson Perry often makes public appearances as his female alter-ego Claire. This isn’t seen as a separate eccentricity but as part of the way you view his work. Similarly, David Bowie adopted a number of personae who either enacted or represented the subject matter of his music, and Prince starred in films which created a mythology alongside the discography. This approach adds a new dimension whereby the art comes to life, and somebody who listens to an album or goes to see a concert lives the art too.

But writers?

Writers are traditionally thought to be the most introspective of artists. Whether this is true or not of every single writer, most in the past century have abandoned the process of their art once they send their manuscript to their publisher. It is the in-house design and marketing brains who sell their art. Instead of using their imaginations to come up with a brilliant promotional strategy which issues directly from the artistic vision of their book, they do a few readings or interviews around the country. No wonder literary fiction doesn’t sell.And faced with introverts that have to be minded, I understand why it is difficult to find an author who inspires six-figure confidence from publishers. It is, after all, the author who gets the contract, not just the book. The author is expected to write more books after that, and better ones.

The problem stems from a couple ofoutmoded beliefs.

One is that caring about how one’s art is sold is vulgar / beneath artistic seriousness. Lord Byron could have made a killing when Childe Harold came out in 1812, but accepting payment for one’s writing was seen as ignoble: for hack professionals. Byron’s publisher got rich instead. That was two hundred years ago. But though writers have for a long time admitted they need the money, I believe there’s a blood-memory of something which gets in the way of them picturing their books as objects.

Another is the old cliché of art not speaking for itself: Style over Substance. But ‘style’ has always meant something quite different in fiction. Style is the way prose is written and conceived; a way of seeing and thinking. This comes included in the book’s marrow, it’s ‘substance.’ But even in the more popular use of style – the vanity of the thing – there are some issues which must be addressed. Even with the David Bowie / Ziggy Stardust continuum – Bowie at his most physically extravagant – one never got the impression that he was ‘style over substance’. His ‘substance’ was great, but the ‘style’ was a catalyst for the substance: it was part of appreciating the songs. Like with great prose writers, style in the hands of a true artist is a double helping of substance.

So who can be called the Bowie of writing? Who has such a detailed performance style? (Bret Easton Elis?Let’s not bother, eh?) Philip Roth likes to perform – manipulating a reader’s desire for biographical information is one of his constants – but even then the performance always presents him as a catty, private person who doesn’t understand or sympathise with the need to know the man behind the work. For Roth, anyone who expects to find the juicy gossip they desire is missing the point: writers fictionalise themselves professionally. Even the truth is part of the fiction. You have to look far back indeed if you want to find a rock star author.

You’d be surprised. This rock star author was an Anglican vicar in the eighteenth century and his name was Laurence Stern.

Sterne wrote a couple of novels. The title of his most famous can be abbreviated to TristramShandy: a long fictional autobiography which ends beforeTristram is an adult – so concerned is the narrator with telling us everything that made him who he is. It is full of digressions, diagrams and references to the author’s public reception – i.e loads of playful ‘meta’ stuff. TristramShandywas a massive success. Sterne cultivated an association between himself andtwo of his characters:Tristram, a Yorkshire gentleman ( hisZiggy); and Yorick, a bawdy clergyman and the star of his next novel (his Thin White Duke). Sterne even published his serious sermons as Yorick. When Sterne died people wrote obituaries to his characters, too. But this kind of thing was more commonplace than you’d think. In the eighteenth century people often published under personae as well as pseudonyms. But it is the way things are fed from the fiction into the real world and vice versa that interests me.

In 2011, Leo Benedictus’ The Afterparty came out. At its heart is the story of a celebrity scandal and media cover-up, but around this the reader is invited to take part in the book’s marketing strategy. A character within the novel is submitting the ‘inner’ novel – the one about celebs – to a literary agent. This frame allows room for a separate plot concerning the secret identity of the would-be author, but it also suggests a different level, a new context, where the contents of the book affect the outside world, and where one is invited to interact and collude with the subject matter. You don’t just read his book: you live it, you tweet it.

Readers of the hardback could enter a competition to be immortalised in the book and written into the paperback as a character. ‘Deleted scenes’ were promised, as was the inclusion of any tweets about the book that included the hashtag #afterpartybook.Benedictus (or rather, a character within his book) coined the term ‘Hyperfiction.’ He (Benedictus, not the character) expanded on this at interview, saying that ‘novels need not stop at their own covers,’ and that with The Afterparty he sought to plant ‘pieces of the novel inside the real world.’

As usually happens with innovation, The Afterparty has been greeted with some closed mindedness ( – though far less that you’d expect, thankfully). Most of this, however, seems to be to do with the ‘vapid’ subject matter of the celebrity world and the postmoderntricksiness rather than the Hyperfiction concept.

My favourite thing about The Afterparty is how it also works as a piece of traditional fiction, with  craftyrevelations and heaps of style (and by style I mean the writerly kind – the kind that is part of the substance and talent). If writers are good enough, confident enough about the substance of their work, why not be a little vainer about it andlet this spill over into the outside world? Into the realm of style?

Jonathan McAloon | @jonniemcaloon


Aldo Luongo-by-anwar nada art (12)

It was late November. Or April. Or August. I guess it could have been Christmas, but most cafés are closed that day and where else would I have run into a man who smelled good and looked at me with such dark, deep, intelligent eyes when it was that cold? I’d say it was New Year’s Eve, but that would create too much pressure for one day. What is the best time to meet someone who then proceeds to change your life repeatedly? Is it January? Is it March? Is it a lazy summer day that doesn’t promise much otherwise? I don’t know, so I’ll just go with February. It was February, then.
If it was February there were still blankets of snow on the sidewalks and people walking hurriedly with coffee, phones and shopping bags in their hands. I need you to know that, despite this is my story, I was never alone in it. Not until very late anyway, when it was all reduced to what I wanted from life — you don’t get many happy endings like that, do you? There were people all around me, therefore, reminding me that whatever I was going through, they were going through it too.
At least this is always true, no matter the month and day: at any given point in time, there are people going through the exact same things next to us. Even if they won’t tell. Even if we’ll never tell.
I don’t meet him yet. I’d skip to that part, but I don’t want to press fast forward just yet. I like playing with details. Still contouring the features of your dreams is more exciting than explaining them, and surely less frightening than living them.
You might be wondering why I’m making things up. It’s because I’m not trying to give you all the facts. I’m not even trying to tell you the truth. This is my story and all that matters is that it has my fingertips all over it, like a black and white drawing a child is colouring in a sunny living room. I’ll spare you the real, for you have enough of it yourself.
For now, it’s February, it’s Friday morning and it’s snowing. It’s morning, because I like taking my time, and it’s only snowing for the sake of it.

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, crawled my way to the mirror — and the mirror went all, you know, Oh, it’s you again… Maybe it wasn’t the mirror. Maybe it was my inner voice, exuding negativity again.
My hair is light, short and messy on most days, but not today. Today, remember, everything feels wrong, so my hair gets to be long, wavy and in a lovely dark cherry colour — everything feels so wrong that I must get at least a few things right.
I would tell you about my two-story flat and the circular staircase and the large windows running from one end to the other, about luxury, healthy breakfasts and beautiful pieces of furniture, but I can’t. My mind is cold and empty, like a ghost town. Yes, today I woke up feeling unhappy. Hence my house is a small, crowded and cold little flat in the suburbs of a city that makes one feel insignificant. We all feel anonymous when we go on holidays in foreign countries. I feel anonymous at home. People here don’t know me, and I know no one. I hide my face in the tall collar of my winter coat these days, and hope to remain unnoticed.
See, I would change this for the joy of writing a better story. I’d be loud and have lots to say and lots to show, and I’d never get to the point and you wouldn’t care, because you all like loud. But if there’s one thing that you can be sure it stays unchanged all throughout this it’s who I am deep inside. I won’t hide that, because there’s nothing else I could show. If there was, I would.
You might wonder why I’m still a stranger in this city, why I haven’t made an effort for men like the one I’m about to meet to know me by now. The truth is that I am a stranger by choice.
Because I can stop being one at any given time.
And because life is just as boring when you are Little Miss Sunshine as it is when you are Nobody.
I know, because I’ve been here, and I’ve been there.
Matter of fact, I’ve been everywhere, and if there’s one important lesson that I’ve learnt it’s this: there is no such thing as the point of no return. But that, of course, only applies to me.
I was born with a blessing that has, in time, turned into a curse. Every single moment of my life, I can choose where I want to be.
That’s right. I get to pick my life for the day. It’s like owning a wonderful catalogue, an encyclopaedia, if you want, flipping through its pages and deciding for a destination, a look, a life.
Most days, I don’t pick anything new. I’m just like you. Because honestly, after a while you learn that the world isn’t as vast as you thought it was and wherever you are, you’re still you. You can run away from everything that surrounds you, but you can never run away from who you are — and eventually, everything will turn out the same way as before. They say you are the creator of your own life. I’m creating mine all over again, and again, and again, but it keeps leading to… ah well, enough of the sad stuff.
Now you see why the day of the month, the surroundings and the hairstyle I chose in the beginning seemed so irrelevant. Because when living like me, you understand that they are.
It’s painful to watch how I can change anything in my life, except who I am and how I respond to things.
I think the Devil must have taken my soul in exchange, though I would gladly make the trade back. This wasn’t my choice. I want nothing, nothing but the ability to change myself for the better.

So here’s to setting the scene again: it’s 10 a.m. and I’m getting ready in a dark, crowded little flat that’s not on my liking, but it’s not supposed to be either. Not in February, not on Fridays. I brush my long, wavy, dark hair and have some milk and cereals before I run out the door, walk among busy people and end up in a smoky bar. Once I’m inside, I spot a table next to the window and hurry to throw my bag on the chair.
There. This is my mole hole for the day.


Strangers whose bodies brush against each other for a split of a second, never to touch again.
But he catches my eye, and I want to touch him more than once. I want to know things about him. I want us to be a little bit more than strangers. Not a lot, because then he’d upset me one night and I’d leave in the morning, determined not to look back. I want us to be just enough so that I can bask in his warmth and nod at his plans feeling happy for a while, happy I’ve met someone interesting and wonderful at last.
I know that all of this doesn’t matter much, for I won’t be here forever. It’ll be like a summer love, except it’s February. Like a holiday romance that will wear off by the end of the month.
But winning people over is the only challenging thing left, because it’s the one thing I have no control over.
I take a look at myself and don’t like what I see. I’m sitting at my corner table, hiding behind a thick book and avoiding all eye contact. My mind starts to wander from here to there and all that fuss is making me nervous inside. It reminds me of all the fun there is to have out there, fun that no matter where I’ll choose to wake up tomorrow I won’t have, because I’ll still be me and mess everything up. I take a deep breath and stretch my arms and legs, coughing to regain my voice. I haven’t spoken to anyone in so long. Someone at the bar is staring at me, but it’s not him. I know, because this time I stare back with confidence and their eyes move to the floor. You must have thought I am shy, but before I try to prove you wrong, I’ll just tell you how the story goes.
I stand up and people from all across the room look at me in silence. Ah, if only things played harder to get in life. I catch him too, with his head turned over his shoulder. But it’s only a couple of seconds before he orders a drink and gets ready to go back to his table.
I’m determined not to miss this chance to prove myself that I am, indeed, cursed with the ability to get pretty much everything I want, everything but myself. My spontaneity makes a not-so-wise move and I end up touching his arm the moment I find myself near the bar. He is visibly amused. His eyes are sincere and confused and I know he is waiting for me to say something. Instead, what I do is take a seat and wait for my turn to be served. That and nothing more.
I could tell he was staring, but not that he would break into a quiet, patronising laughter shortly after.
Could have put my hand in the fire that he was a bit more… subtle.
‘Is this your idea of breaking the ice?’ he asks.
I turn around to him and discover that his face has turned red with laughter.
‘Do you like me?’ I surprise myself asking him.
I don’t have much to lose, you see. He doesn’t know what to do, to laugh or to take me seriously and thus run out the door. Not another crazy one, he must be thinking.
‘I don’t know yet,’ he smiles.
‘Too bad. I thought that when a man sees the woman of his dreams, it takes him seconds to recognise her from the crowd. Like love at first sight, only it’s not love yet.’
I’m sure I must be looking deadly serious, but what he doesn’t know is that I’m not. I’m only sad.
As he tries to come closer to me, the barman asks me if I want a drink.
‘Just a strong coffee,’ I say and give him some coins.
When he leaves, the handsome stranger looks like he’s on the verge of saying something utterly important for the rest of my life. Instead, he cracks up in another unexpected laughter and quietly says, ‘You know, I’m pretty sure the woman of my dreams as I picture her would be a bit more… subtle.’
At this point I congratulate myself on choosing him out of all the men in here.
‘Don’t you believe in such things? Maybe I’m coming on strong so I don’t miss the chance of getting what I really want from you, and live a life of what-ifs.’
‘You’re joking,’ he verdicts. ‘I know you are, you must be.’
‘Because you’re pretty, too pretty to be mad.’
‘Oh,’ I say, smiling. ‘But wouldn’t that be the beauty of it?’
‘What, of madness?’
‘Yes. Madness is supposed to look pretty to get to you.’
He doesn’t look convinced.
I’m just happy to pass the time playing yet another role.
‘I can tell you what’s beautiful about madness, but it has nothing to do with you.’
‘Alright then,’ I say and get off my chair. ‘Come over to my table and tell me,’ I say and grab the coffee the barman just brought.
Soon he is sat at my table sipping coffee and I get to take another good look at him. Tall, dark, handsome. Too bad this one won’t last either.
We laugh over the table, we touch each other’s hands now and then and my heart feels lighter, quieter, easier to bear.
‘Tell me about the beauty of madness,’ I dare him. ‘Tell me everything you know.’
He smiles and looks like he is choosing his words carefully before he starts. ‘Madness is magical, and that’s not you,’ he says. ‘Everything you think you know about it, you can forget about. You know nothing, for nothing you are is magical and therefore maddening.’
‘Well that’s harsh,’ I say and, somehow, feel deeply hurt.
‘Let’s not be dramatic. But magic is close to sacred. You’re just a pretty girl in a bar. Aim high, but lower those expectations,’ he laughs.
According to him, magic is things set in motion, the world moving at the speed of light, leaving nothing to the eye but a mixture of colours and sounds that make you dizzy and happy. Magic happens when there is nothing else going on — it’s either everything or nothing. You can’t have magic at your right and your workplace and favourite shop and fish market at the left.
‘Tell me something,’ I say. ‘The woman of your dreams… of your wildest dreams, I mean… is she magical?’
‘It would help a lot,’ he laughs.
I notice how he makes circles with the spoon in his coffee as he speaks. ‘But you know there is no such thing.’
‘Oh, there is,’ he smiles and I suddenly feel small, unimportant.
‘Alright, I’m listening.’
‘I can imagine her,’ he says, grinning. ‘It’s not hard. You know what else is magical, apart from the people who love their worlds to bits? Life, when you live it out loud and don’t stop for a second to look around. Life, when you don’t analyse or try to perfect it. That’s how she should be. Like a tornado….’
‘Would she care about you, then?’
‘That matters less. I wouldn’t want her to stop and lick my wounds. You don’t trip tornadoes. What matters is if I could keep up with her.’
‘I think I’ve had enough of you,’ I suddenly decide and get up.
‘Where’re you going?!’ he shouts. ‘What did I do wrong?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I say and, for a moment, I’m tempted to stay, but know that it wouldn’t make any difference.
I slam the door behind me and head back home, wanting nothing else but to sleep through the rest of today.
As I lay in bed I think of how every morning I hope for better days, and every day I hope for more mornings, but somehow life repeats itself to the point of exhaustion. Breaking the cycle would be the new, and it’s the new I can’t reach and grab and make mine, because it’s far from my shores and I don’t know how to expand. Trying on new clothes and colours doesn’t make me bigger and bolder, it only paints over the choices of yesterday, and having more means only more of the same.
The conversation I had with the handsome stranger only served to remind me of the thrill of freedom, the one and only thing that, it’s said, can be bigger than loneliness. We’ve all experienced it for short moments, like brief flashes of light; but they’ve all ended before they really started to change us into better people. We remember them as the happiest moments of our lives, the most real things that have ever happened to us. So powerful yet so small they nearly don’t touch us at all. This must be what he meant — that little by little at a time doesn’t always do the trick. Sometimes, we must wake up with the confidence that we are a whole new breed — the almighty one.
But I don’t know how to love my world to bits. All I know is how to change it, and I can’t stop. No one seems able to tell me what the shortcut to freedom is, and that is what I really want to ask the people like him, that look pure and intangible at the same time. I want to know the secret to genuine happiness from somebody who looks like they’re living it, but these people guard it with the price of their lives and only talk what is nonsense to me.
I wanted to know what crazy beautiful is to a man like the one who caught my eye at the bar, and all I got was ‘It’s not you’.


Raindrops still linger on my open windows. I lean out and take in the night air, feeling as if the whole world has gone to sleep; only that it hasn’t. The world is waiting for me, and I’m taking five more minutes before I brush my hair and go show up. Five more minutes to enjoy the silence and watch cars driving on the wet streets, because the truth is that I haven’t changed one bit.
It’s mid-July now, my hair is the lightest shade of blonde and my skin is flawless. I’m having excitement, embarrassment even, a whole new city and a large group of friends. I’ve switched back to popularity when summer bloomed, but at the end of the day I’m still floating through days that feel the same, wanting everything because I am one step away from wanting nothing. It’s still winter in here.
Eventually, I take one last deep breath and hope the night goes well. I’ll try not to stop, not for one minute, to wonder at the atmosphere of the place and what I am doing there.
My friend’s party seems to have attracted all sorts of people, from a hot mess like myself to classy men like him. She introduces us, jokes about how we both looked so lonely and thought we could use some company, then leaves us alone. He smiles and agrees with her. I smile back and try not to.
We end up on the porch, getting drunk on every kind of alcohol served inside, where we only go to get more drinks. I feel very drawn to him from the start. He reminds me of myself, in the future I had planned years ago, where I was going to be like him — smooth and successful, without having to cheat at every 9 a.m..
‘I want to be someone’s portion of magic,’ I surprise myself telling him.
I cannot forget that conversation. I’m thinking about it a lot more than I should, in fact. He seems to understand something and walks me to the garden swing. ‘Where did this come from?’ he asks me, minutes later.
I can sense a little bit of seriousness in his voice.
‘I don’t know,’ I shrug. ‘I just spend so much time daydreaming. I wish I could show it to someone else, because it’s pretty damn beautiful.’ I feel I can trust this man. I wish I was his portion of magic. ‘I wish I could live the life of my dreams,’ I whisper, almost to myself. ‘Be the girl of my dreams. Then I’d be magic for everyone.’
He looks like he is really listening when I suddenly turn to him.
I like what I see, I say to myself, but before the feeling settles he drops the bomb.
‘But that’s not what magic means.’
How wonderful. I have run into another know-it-all.
‘Are you going to give me your own definition for it, and tell me that’s what it really is?’
‘No, no… it’s not a definition. I just want to make you take a different approach.’
‘I’m all eyes and ears,’ I say and want to leave, when he grabs my hand and pulls me back.
‘Look around,’ he says, and puts an arm around me. ‘Look at all this madness.’
My blood turns a little cold when he says madness.
‘Look at how the city lights blend into each other. Listen to the hum, the voices, the noises. Doesn’t it look maddeningly beautiful from here? But as soon as you run to it and want to be a part of it, it all falls into a million little pieces, each with its own individuality and family and dreams, and it’s nothing more than drops of glasses that reflect bits of what it seemed.’
I like the feeling of being in his arms, but something tells me that this is more than a bedtime story with an unhappy ending.
‘Do you want to turn yourself into the girl of your dreams? Do you know exactly who you have to be to deserve that title? Do you have a plan for every step you need to take?’
I just sit there in silence, unable to breathe, speak or look him in the eyes. It all turned out so much deeper than planned, so much more against me.
‘Because you’re doing it all wrong then. There is no magic in perfection. As soon as you get close to beauty, it turns hideous. As soon as you want to be part of crazy, the crazy vibes stop flowing. Life has an energy of its own, that’s why it figures itself out. Magic is looking, not touching. Enjoying, not possessing. Being, not trying to be. As soon as you tear in halves the list of magic traits you must have in order to be someone’s magic, you will become it. You’ll be chaotic and ever-changing, and wild, and free, and beautiful to watch flowing through life.’
I know that he is a good man. I don’t know how I know that, but I do, and yet my heart beats in every inch of my skin.
‘Who are you?’ I finally ask in a thin, shaky voice.
‘What does it matter? Are you trying to fit all the pieces together again?’
He makes me look at him, and all I see is the face of a stranger with the confident smile of someone who knows all my secrets.
‘Have we met before?’ I whisper.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘to your first question. You’re doing it, once again, cheap pub or sophisticated dinner party.’
It’s funny, because he looked nothing like the man I met months ago. I found him just as attractive, but in a very different way. He didn’t remind me of anybody at first. How do you even find two people similarly attractive? My head is spinning round and round as I’m taking the long walk home, and I still end up in bed earlier than I promised myself. I have nightmares all night, nightmares where faces blend together, then fall to pieces as drops of glasses that reflect bits of what they seemed.


The next day I decide not to change the scenery yet. I’m used to doing so whenever things go wrong, but last night wasn’t wrong. It was only different. I found a spark of the unknown in a world where I thought I was the only thing that I couldn’t explain.
Last night I met a man who spoke like someone I met seasons ago but looked nothing alike. The thought of finding another person going through the same as me gives me the chills.
I spend half an hour in the mirror, trying not to think about what the purpose of this charade is. Eventually I take a long hard look at myself and it’s time I snap out of it the old school way, since magic turned out to be my weak point.
There’s a café round the corner from my house, where I end up going for coffee and a nice healthy breakfast. I find a seat at one of the friendly wood tables outside, with coloured flowers, menus and newspapers. My hair is tied in a simple updo and I’m dressed in a long, flowery dress. Next to me, there is a man in a red shirt, with a large brown dog and the biggest cup of coffee I’ve seen. The time comes when our eyes try to recognise each other, but don’t. Thankfully, I have never met him before. I breathe easy and feel happy that I didn’t choose to be anywhere else this morning.
But life has a funny way of turning tables just when you decide to be good for the rest of the day.
‘Hey,’ he says.
I look at him, curious to see what comes after the pick-up line. But he doesn’t, and that makes me smile.
‘Hey, stranger,’ I say, ‘How’s the coffee here?’
‘Almost as good as the view,’ he responds.
I laugh.
‘It must be good then. I really like your dog too.’
He invites me over to his table and I can only accept it. My mind is still running around in circles from last night, looking for answers all around me. I could use some conversation. I go inside to order something for myself and, when I get back, I change my seat for one at his table.
‘How’s the coffee, then?’ he asks me.
‘Good, good. I needed this.’
‘You’ve had a rough night, huh?’
‘I guess you can say that. I met someone.’
‘Oh. Well you sure move on fast if you’re already having breakfast alone.’
‘No, I don’t mean that. He was acting really strange. It made me feel so uncomfortable that I had to leave the party. That’s where my rough night ended,’ I laugh.
‘I see. You’re a party girl then.’
‘I try. Last night, I failed.’
‘Was it that bad?’
‘I don’t know. He reminded me of someone I met a while ago. Does it ever happen to you? I feel like I’m talking too much about myself. ‘
‘You know, meet a woman that reminds you of an ex, let’s say.’
‘Ah. Sometimes. But the man from your past wasn’t your boyfriend, was he?’
‘No, he wasn’t. How did you guess that?’
He doesn’t say anything, just makes circles with the spoon in his coffee. All of a sudden, I’m having a déjà vu – he has a familiar look on his face.
‘I’m sorry, do we know each other?’ I ask him and try to maintain my calm.
‘Not particularly well, no. I’m not your ex, that’s for sure’ he laughs, ‘You never really gave me a chance. You know the story… You try to get the girl, but she leaves before you have the chance to tell her why you picked her out of everybody else. Or, well, she picked you…’
This is impossible.
I must be losing my mind.
‘Tell me about last night. What did he do wrong, that you left without him?’
‘The same as you,’ I mumble, confused. ‘He tried to mess me up.’
‘And what did you expect? Some nice guy to play it safe with?’ he grins.
‘No, just someone…’
I don’t know how to say this. It might be that the cliché becomes true all of a sudden. I’m a woman who doesn’t know what she wants.
But he seems to know better.
‘Someone who lets you be the magical element in the relationship?’
‘Well, that’s kind of hard to find. We all want to play that part. You have to be a magical girl on your own, before your turn comes, if it does.’
‘And how do I become one?’
‘Are you asking me this? A stranger you met at the café? Are you mad, girl?’
‘Who the hell are you?’ I scream to his face and scare the dog. I don’t care.
‘I am who you think I am. What, are you not going to leave now? You already did twice,’ he laughs and finishes his coffee.
‘Listen, I can’t keep seeing you again, and again, and again!’
‘Ah, but you’re talking to me again, and again, and again. You’re always talking to me. Where do you think this will lead to?’
But I can’t deal with this right now.


Someone stops me on my way to nowhere and asks me what the time is. I tell them it’s midday and they start lecturing me on how I will never find the miracle of everyday if I walk down the street looking all grumpy. Coincidence or not, the word miracle makes me hit the ground running, but I know there is nowhere to go for someone like me. I may have the world at my fingertips, but I am always out of tune with it. Starting all over again would be just as pointless as it was last time. When variety becomes a habit, newness loses meaning. And it was all in vain. I have no control whatsoever over who I am.
I curl up on a bench in Central Park, listening to the birds and looking at people going places, lovers holding hands, children running around, dogs catching branches, Frisbees or whatever they catch these days. Sometimes, the best hiding place is the spotlight.
They tell you that you’re going to die. What they don’t tell you is that you might die unhappy, unfulfilled. They sell you lies in ad campaigns and shopping malls and don’t tell you the essential — that you could die any minute, without ever having felt the touch of magic on your skin; with no tiny cell of madness in your tired body.
What am I doing, then? Running around in a haze, aimlessly and carelessly, screaming how much I want, I want, I want. What do I want, they wonder, and I pretend I don’t know either. The truth is that I don’t want much, I just want myself. That is my definition of magic at this point — the power to change myself into whom I should have been by now.
After fifteen long minutes, a funny-looking man sits down on the other side of the bench with a backpack and a notebook on his lap and starts scribbling.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask him.

He doesn’t seem surprised and for some reason I didn’t expect him to be either.
‘What are you writing?’
‘Short stories.’
‘About what?’
‘Just fantasy.’
‘Oh. That thing.’
He nods his head and carries on.
‘Who are you?’
‘I am what you should be. A mad artist making magic.’
‘But I am not an artist.’
‘Oh, but you want to be one.’
‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘With everything, you mean. Haven’t you noticed how life is circular? You go to different places only to end up being dragged to the same old one. It’s the things that you want that drag you around.’
Before you wonder about why is this conversation even taking place, know that I’ve reached my breaking point. That said, I give up on walking away from people who are trying to tell me something. After all, I was the one who felt offended when a stranger told me that I am not mad. Let it be, then.
‘Why is this happening? Why can’t I find magic?’
‘Who said you can’t?’
‘I can’t find it in myself. How can I find so much of it that I can put it into stories and be a real writer?’
‘Oh… but you will never find it by running away from yourself every day, or every season.’
‘I am not running away from myself, I am running away from people and places in my attempt to find myself.’
‘And what do you end up having? More people and places on your list, and less and less chances to find yourself.’
‘I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong. For as long as it’s not in me, where else am I supposed to find it but in the world around me?’
‘But of course it’s in you. You just don’t see it. But you see it in other people, and that makes you jealous and bitter. Then you have to run away. That’s not where magic is, in the charming guys that you meet.’
‘But I’m trying to be better every time, don’t you see?’
‘I’ll be honest with you — I don’t, and you’re not. You’re always changing where you are, not who you are. You are not ever-changing. You always go to the same places, you talk to the same kind of people. There is a pattern that you follow and that I could trace with my eyes closed. There is nothing truly new in your choices. And you say you want magic? Magic is not going to happen this way.’
‘Then how is it going to happen?’
‘It is going to happen when you sit down, take a deep breath, maybe smoke a cigarette if you like, or have a nice meal; alone. When you look around and see beautiful people and you let them be beautiful without trying to pull the wisdom out of them with pliers.’
‘Tell me something. Why is everyone the same person? Why are you the same man I’ve met before so many times?’
‘Don’t you understand? We are all mirrors reflecting you. The interesting man at the bar, being picked up with a clever line and dragged into a conversation; the classy man at the party, talking about things with meaning with an attractive someone; the hippie guy at the café on the corner, finally daring to make a move towards someone they fancy; and me, your ordinary guy happily making magic in a park, living your writing dream. Do you see it now? We are not a miracle of nature; we are the you you do not dare to be. You are drawn to people who possess the qualities and lives you wish you had. No wonder they are all alike. Do you want to end that stupid curse and become the girl you want to be? Then stop talking to us. Stop changing places. Stop doing the same things every day, even if you do them here or somewhere else. Become one with your reflection and you will stop seeing it in every window. You will never have to change your hair colour again, unless, of course, you really want to. You cling to us to give you a drop of magic, but we are not who you think we are. I am you, the you that you suppress deep inside and go searching for all over the world. There, you found yourself, in different shapes and sizes. We are all one, because you don’t want to be yourself.’
I don’t believe this.
‘Is this a bad dream?’
‘It is indeed. The only difference is that only you can choose when and if you’re going to wake up from it.’
I stare at him in silence, and he gets back to his writing. I notice how he doesn’t initiate a conversation — he just answers my questions.
‘Hey, stranger…’
‘You can call me that, he says, although you’ve met me at least three times so far. I’m not exactly a stranger anymore.’
‘If I ask you to be the one leaving, will you?’ the words come out of my mouth slowly, tediously.
I am tired of this, and I don’t even try to hide it.
‘I might, but you’ll meet me again at the exit of this park.’
‘What will you look like then?’
‘Whatever might catch your eye at that point of your existence, I guess. I can’t be sure yet.’
‘That point of my existence would be a few minutes from now,’ I laugh. ‘Do you want to share a cigarette with me?’
‘I don’t smoke,’ he says.
‘But I do.’
‘Oh, only until you become your favourite self. You won’t want to kill that.’
‘Fine, I’ll have one.’
I inhale the smoke and wait for his answer, but remember that he is only there because so am I, or whatever he claims.
‘So tell me,’ I say, ‘how can you not know what I’ll be looking for in five minutes? Do I not want the same things all the time?’
‘I don’t know, do you?’
I shrug.
‘So you think I want to look like an undercover detective who comes to the park and writes novels, right?’
‘On some days I am sure you do. More or less. I am pretty sure you don’t want to be a man,’ he laughs, ‘but I had to get your attention somehow.’
‘Okay,’ I laugh, ‘what else?’
‘Why don’t you tell me that?’
I guess two can play this game.
‘Well, you got one thing right, I do want to be a writer. But I don’t want to be a writer yet.’
‘How so?’
‘I don’t know, I guess I could try, but I feel so drained that I think I’d be a terrible writer. I hardly believe in magic, that must be why I want to find it so badly.’
‘How about you create it? Have you thought of that?’
‘I can’t even recreate myself; you said it.’
‘Oh, no. Don’t recreate anything, please. That’s like taking expired food and trying to make a cake from it.’
‘Oh, thanks.’
‘It’s all an allegory, in case you were wondering. Things are not what they seem to be, but what you want them to be. It’s up to you to give them the meaning that suits you. I can only tell you what you need to learn.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Until you assume your new identity, that’s crawling to get out of your skin and drip onto every bit of reality you get in contact with, you will see it in everyone and hate it every time. In fact, it will be all you ever see — like now.’
‘You wanted the shortcut to being beautiful, I’m giving it to you. You wanted to know how that works – this is how it works. You shed your old plums and turn into a masterpiece. You believe in your new identity, and you will become it. But you have to believe. You wanted bits of insights from strangers, I’m giving you them. You must, suddenly and strangely even, become the people you turn to for help. You are drawn to them because they hold little pieces of who you are. But in this case, they are not different people. They are all reflections of who you are on the inside. But hurry up, because becoming yourself shouldn’t be your only purpose in life. In fact, all of this is less about becoming and more about understanding the price of freedom.’
‘I look really zoned out, don’t I?’
‘Need I tell you this? You’re walking among mirrors and you still don’t wake up. So tell me, if you were a writer, what would you create first?’
‘Well… I don’t know, myself I guess. I think I’d have long hair and a rocking body, but I’m not so keen on physical features, because I’ve been getting new ones all my life. I’d be loud and strong though, and very, very brave.’
He sighs and goes on writing his stuff.
‘Wait, what are you doing? I thought you wanted to hear what I want.’
‘I do, but you’re fantasizing right now. Maybe you could save that for your writings and stop selling me lies. Can I rephrase this? Stop lying to yourself.’
‘How am I lying?’
To my surprise, I now find out that his eyes look just like mine.
‘You were a stranger by choice, remember? Then you stopped being a stranger and became successful; then you went to a party, hid on the porch to talk to yourself, didn’t like what you heard and left before midnight. You don’t want to be that girl you’re describing; otherwise you would have been her already, when given the chance. Now tell me, who do you really want to be?’
‘I think I just want to be me’ I admit, staring at the ground, ‘but a more refined version of it. One that goes out alone, smiles in mirrors, is honest about herself. I want to feel free, just like you said. I’m sure the right words would come to me then, because I’d have stopped forcing out the wrong ones. Oh, and speaking of that, definitely a writer. Are you still listening? I don’t know what else to say. What do you think?’
He seems to be paying me no attention.
‘Hello?’ I shout, nervously.
‘I’m sorry, what’s wrong?’ he asks, turning to me and looking terribly confused. ‘Have we met?’
‘What do you think?’ I ask, gnashing my teeth.
‘I’m not sure, I’m terribly sorry. Let’s go through this one more time and maybe I’ll remember. I’m Martin. I’m a writer. Who are you?’
‘Mel… I am a writer as well.’
His face brightens up, as if I gave the right answer in classroom and saved everyone.
Or I’ve just felt proud of myself for the first time, and think that the universe is proud of me too.
I’m not sure.
‘What do you write?’
‘Just fantasy,’ I answer, my voice shaking a little.
‘Oh, that’s fantastic!’ he laughs. ‘So what are your stories mostly about?’
‘Myself, I suppose,’ I finally say and get the warm feeling again.
He smiles and I feel a little lost, and a little brave, and very much curious to see what comes next.

Hey, Anyone Who Works in Publishing Around Here?


Dear everybody/all 3 of you who will read this,

I’m looking for someone who works in the publishing industry and can be easily contacted. I want to apply for work experience in the industry, and it would be extremely helpful if someone who knows what companies are looking for could quickly see my CV & cover letter before I send them out. This is just to make sure they’re alright and I actually have a chance of getting some emails back.

I don’t ask for much – 10 minutes of your time, and maybe another 5 to tell me ‘Hey, I wouldn’t get back to you if you emailed me that in other circumstances, but in this case, here’s what you can improve –’

Thank you!

Something Blue


‘What do you want?’ she asked. ‘The truth or a nice evening?’
I was tempted… so tempted.

It’s 4 a.m., the two of us, a pack of stray dogs and the night, cool with all its rain, and a chill passes over me. I don’t touch her yet. The feeling I’m experiencing is one of repulsion for her hands, her voice, everything I can’t have for myself. I wanted a nice evening, but in the end the lies egg cracked and the truth came out liquid, sticky and terribly hard to clean. She got me a cloth and tidied me up when we left the bar. I, the mess, stood still and watched her, as from a distance.

My soul feels rough and weary, like a pair of jeans you wash with pumice stones until their texture gets weak. Gone are the days I could brag about an inner self that could not be violated. My lion heart is now only a zodiacal feature. The reality is that I’ve turned soft, nostalgic and quiet, like a slow dance danced until the end of time with a cold, beautiful woman kissing my neck and whispering sweet nonsense in my ears.

‘You forgot about violent, my dear,’ she says. ‘A dance is also sensual, violent, tragic. It stays quiet, but it has strength. I can hear the speed of your thoughts, you know. These days, I think it’s the only part of you that stays alert.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘You’re getting yourself old that way though, and it’s just too bad. You’ll have to live with yourself many years from now. Why would you want to get old before the times come?’

She swirls her fingers around mine and we keep walking in silence. At least she knows how to be silent. I only want to share my secrets to 4 a.m. 4 a.m. always reads me best.

I have the most beautiful lover in the world, and there’s no one out here lonelier than me, I think. Actually, I feel there’s no one out here at all.

When she came over at half nine she had a radiant smile and a sophisticated purple dress that made me want to trade our night out for one in. I tried to talk her out of leaving the house, as my mood had swung from partying to snuggling on the couch, and slowly, to making love to her for all the rest of my days. I was so in love that the feeling was dripping out of every pore of my skin. To me, she was more than a pretty face mixed with some girlish charm in a woman’s body. She got under my skin and made me want her in ways I don’t often want others to stay with me. I was mad about her, and a bit tipsy.

‘You want me?’ she laughed. ‘Oh sweetheart, you do have me for tonight don’t you?’
‘I don’t just want you for tonight. I want to have you, in any way there is — physically, emotionally, damn it, eternally. Will you be mine?’

She leaned over me and grabbed another glass of wine, looking terribly confused. I took advantage of that and slowly kissed her, putting away the wine and hoping for a romantic outcome. She, on the other hand, had other plans.
‘What do you want?’ she asked. ‘The truth or a nice evening?’

I could have asked her to be frank and tell me right away that she didn’t want me back, so I could hear it loud and clear. Instead, as a true lover not being loved in return, I chose to dig myself in a hole of ignorance and leave the misery for later. I smiled, had a few more drinks, helped her put her coat on and drove to the best bar I could think of, somehow hoping that we’d make it back together in the morning. I smoked an entire pack of cigarettes in the few hours we spent out, all while watching her happily ever flirting with other men on the dance floor. She had this innocence, this bliss, this reinvigorating, fresh charm that fuelled my fire, that made all my senses go insane; that she was ready to share with any man coming her way.

I turn my head to her as we walk. She’s cold and tired and so am I. Gradually I sink into a fine, delicate hatred. I no longer hear what he says. I am only conscious of my own thoughts.
‘You can sleep at my place,’ is all I say when I realise how close we got to my apartment.
‘No, it’s fine, I don’t really feel like sleeping.’
‘Then what do you feel like doing?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says and stops in the middle of the road to play with one of the dogs. ‘I want to stay up until dawn, then I will probably just walk home. I know you’re not at your best, but I’ve had a nice night and want to enjoy it some more — either together with you or all alone. I’m still happy, sweetheart.’

It’s a large, brown one. I watch her and my heart turns blue, as if it wasn’t all broken already. I think about these people who you just love for no reason, or admire to the point you end up wanting their body only to inhabit it. These people who are so seductive, so delicate, so perfectly harmonised with themselves and the world surrounding them, so unaware of their blessed nature, that you suddenly want to be them. Mia is one, and I only wish she stayed longer, so I could learn to live and breathe like her. I feel ashamed thinking that I myself am so clumsy, so silly, yet so stupidly organised. I force myself to develop a charm I lack and fail, and enviously watch her flow. But Mia lacks depth and I, in spite of being no Prince Charming, have so much soul she wouldn’t know how to handle — and I won’t take her shallowness away from her either. I watch her and the dogs and think of how lucky she is for being so lovely, of how boring her relationship with herself must be, of how all she’s got to do to keep her smile is to go out and talk to strangers. She’s easy-going and attractive and I know she’ll be alright because even when they’re not, people like her are always alright. .

I sit down on the pavement next to her, and one dog gets close to me. We’re both happy now, together or all alone — I don’t even know, and it doesn’t even matter. It’s 5 a.m. now and the sky is brighter, and so is my mind as its own blue gets lighter, and lighter, and lighter.

A Train Hurtles Through the Night at Top Speed


Four days agoYou swept me off my feet, M. Literally. So I got back up and ran, as fast as I could.

You wear your ruins well. When I look at you I feel proud, though I didn’t shape a bone in your body. You’re beautiful, but still I got away. When I was broken, you taught me how to run and in turn I never stopped (today, I crave to curl up under the sheets and play hide-away like we don’t mean it one more time; like you’d reach me if you stretched and I’d feel you if I tried).

You never should have trusted me. You’re real, and you expected me and my trauma to go together like milk and cereal. Instead, the more I tried to cover it up because you tried too hard to see its depth, the less authentic I got. We ended up bad, M. The truth is that I used you as a hiding place and you pulled my hand to make me stand tall and walk proud. We never matched.

I didn’t come to you to rescue me, to talk me through or to get better. That’s what people like you don’t understand. I didn’t want your helping hand, I just wanted your shoulder, and you only wanted to stitch me back together. I needed a secret place and you were my favourite one. But when you pulled the curtains and the sun got in…

I was never angry, I just couldn’t vibe with you. I was on dry land and couldn’t keep up. You were a free man and I wasn’t, and none of your tricks could have freed me. Freedom isn’t given, it’s taken.

Victim of my own definition and the rules I lived by, I was no magic fountain for myself, so I decided I’ll leave you and go west, or south, or east or north or wherever it felt warmer, safer at this time of my life’s year.

I wasn’t ready for your cool breezes, for mind swirling tornadoes, for changes and livelier heartbeats and your soul pouring down on me like drizzle and going deeper down my skin, shaped like love. I wasn’t ready.

I couldn’t inhale the life force in you, let vitality pump in my veins, remove my every fright, refresh my heart and renew myself wholly, to be fierce and strong and new. I was my own prisoner, baby, that’s why you couldn’t have me.

I ran away, M, don’t hate me. At the end of it all, I’ll know who’s the girl behind the image, who’s the beast behind the girl, and I hope it’s all the strength that you saw.

For now there is no harbour here. I feel only restless. It is between me and what I hunger for. I want to burn so fast there won’t even be time to think about it once more.

It was all my fault — if I hadn’t caught fire yet…

Piece of Mind


‘Now,’ she says, ‘get me out of my head. It’s much too quiet here.’
‘Fine,’ I’d whisper, ‘where to?’
And she’d smile at me, with that smile of the kind of girl she is. That smile everyone must have seen at least once in their lives. The smile of the kind of girl you don’t forget too easily.
‘Let’s get out of this place,’ she insists, and looks around as if the room has suddenly shrunk. ‘I miss wild love and short stories.’
I know the things she misses. It’s the things that make her come alive. I’ve been watching her all night, taming feelings inside wine glasses, hoping for stormy weather. Chaos would be a good excuse to throw memories out to sea.

She is the kind that any sane man would get a pack of cigarettes with and run away to hell, tightly holding her hand. In the morning, she drinks coffee with milk in between white sheets, used books, youthful intentions; car keys, notes, clothes, dark, scratched walls. It’s the time of day when she believes in more than she can put her finger onto. At night, she turns hours into days, speeding through them like they were eternal. The soft white of summer and the cold of winter diving into her bones are the only ends of her world. All that’s in between – novels and paintings, nostalgia, street corners, red leaves, street lights, the moon, moving cars, people, breathing – is halved chances to get it right. The kind of girl she is; a time runner, from the grounds to the skyline and back again, like a racer for bliss, and beauty and beliefs.

‘Tomorrow I disappear,’ she confesses, and I know it’s because tonight has been much too heavy and silent with her. ‘I go explore the lengths to which life can take me. After, I can move slow and calm, like floating across heavens and night skies.’
She moves her head and I can see the jars with flowers she keeps on the light wooden window frame, next to a couple of empty glasses and a moneybox. A mug of hot chocolate is steaming at her elbow. Outside, the fog is still permeating the city. Her comfort zone looks warm, feminine and welcoming. She lifts her head up again, and looks back into the mirror.
‘You haven’t lived until you’ve lived like that, don’t you agree?’ she asks in a gentle voice.
‘It’s only October,’ I’m ready to answer. ‘You won’t find what you’re looking for during these months. It can’t shake your grounds yet.’
But I know that, just like in the morning she believes in life, at night she believes in better days. I am no one to disagree. Ah… it amuses me. I am no one.

After all, it’s high time she gets out of here. She hasn’t caught fire yet, and talking to me is unlikely to spark her.
But passivity isn’t what kept her awake tonight. She’s been thinking of trains and smiles and sunsets, and holding hands with beautiful strangers who remind her that sadness is overrated. I know, because she’s been talking to me the whole time.

‘All the things that I’m missing,’ she tells me, ‘make me want to find myself on the leather car seat first thing at dawn. I need another chance to live like that, like a second right to be born into this world. I’ll keep taking them, again and again, because I don’t see what else is there to do with this soul surplus I have.’

She moves one hand slowly around her neck, and wipes the steam off the mirror with the other. I believe we’re done here.

Strangers, Dreams and, oh, Vanity Sprinkles


“Anca Dunavete (born 12 September 1992) is from Timișoara, Romania. She is studying Journalism and Media Studies at the University of Portsmouth and mapping out the future. So far, she’s pinned down writing, owning a dog and continuing to live by the sea. If she ever becomes a publisher, she might, however, change her location.

She blogs at www.ancadunavete.com

Well, sometimes she blogs. Other times, she gets caught up in life’s clever ways of keeping her away from her dreams and takes a nap there. But for now…

Strangers is (a)live! Finally, the eight short stories written by me and Cristian over the summer are on Amazon, and I couldn’t be more excited. I hope you get them, I hope you read them and I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed writing them – having no idea where they’re taking me, but loving every word. Yeah, that’s my secret, don’t steal it.

To tell you more about how this beautiful achievement makes me feel – I am over the moon, but also more motivated and willing to work for more-of-this-please than ever before. I’m planning to grow, brand and market this blog like I should have done already; but those were the days when my writing was just escapism.

Now, I believe in more than that. I believe that I can use it as a tool to shape my world, and why not, your worlds for the better. And, because I want to take this one step further, I am soon going to apply for work experience with publishing companies too. I want to do for others what has been done for me, understand and learn more about the industry and, finally, run my own publishing house. These are still only dreams, but crazier things have happened. Like, hey, look at this. :)

If you were wondering whom I’ve dedicated the book to – here you go:

“To the wonderful people who believe in my writing  and Cristian, for not only believing but making this book happen. I can only hope to prove how right you were. Anca”

Are you on the list, then? If so, thank you.

Plot Twists


She’d been racing with the setting sun on the road, waiting for summer to begin. Summer is always promising, and she desperately wanted something to believe in, something to keep her warm, something to love again.

She loved him when her feelings were still raw. Summer was hot and hazy and breathtaking, and the road seemed to go on forever. Intensity was rising higher than she’d ever expected life to take her. He gave her so much love that soon, she was also pouring love into other people. He didn’t mind.

‘Beautiful things are meant to be shared,’ he told her.
She continued his smile. Their trades were always fair — one gave love, the other joy. 
She was joy.

By now she knew that warmth only lasts as long as summer, that summer was over and so was the way she used to feel about things.

She was going to be more careful this time. More careful with the yeah-buts, the what-ifs, the not-nows. When she first used them, she was a child. She didn’t know a wrong move could end the game, because people always told her that the right thing to do was what she felt, so she did it. Then everything felt wrong.

She’d been telling herself for a while that things didn’t have to be how they were, but how she saw them. But her vision changed with the end of summer too. Bright reds turned into dark shades of autumn, blending together in a sadness that she could not pick the happy pieces out of. Let it be, she sighed to herself and embraced her new-found sad place.

In the summer, there were only love, laughter and confusion. Now, things have settled and the confusion was gone. Together with it, though, so were the other two.

She wanted to ask him to talk her out of her feelings, but knew she’d only have silence for him. After a while, you forget the words that should have meant the world at the right time. You forget your intentions, your musts, your could-have-beens. You’re left with the bitter taste of the present. Carpe diem, she smiled through the tears.

Her sadness was nothing new anymore. Having it ripped off, even by someone as gentle as him, was no longer an option. She hated it. And she became it.

At night, she would wake up with cold hands and feet, and pillows piled up high under her head. Joy still sprung out of her consciousness like loud screams, keeping her awake. She always slept in the position of a question mark. The answer was him, every time.

But after a while, she was once again burning hot with desire to stay alive, even if life was going to be tough; she wanted to be tougher. Bitterness became too consuming. It wasn’t a wonderful world, but it was something; and she had been slowly moving towards nothingness.

She embarked on a personal journey to winter. Winter is never as bad as they make it look like in stories. In stories, winter is a metaphor; it’s when your soul grows icicles out of your unhappiness. She wasn’t looking for happy, she was just looking for something else, so winter might have been her place.

She left without knowing why and didn’t ask for warm hugs from anybody. It was only at night that she still looked for the little warmth left inside. Summer was hot and hazy and breathtaking, and she forgot to save some for the upcoming winter. But summer is always infinite while it lasts; no one ever thinks of September.

It was almost October.

She travelled light, forgetting names and faces as she moved from one place to another. She didn’t buy postcards or souvenirs because happiness is the only thing that unhappiness comes out of, once consumed. She wanted to save herself the tears. She only wanted to save herself.

She slowly began to move focus from him to something bigger. Life was, at that point, strip after strip of the seen and the unseen, and the felt and the unfelt, and the lived and the forgotten-to-live that covered her up and suffocated her.

She knew that everything once considered new eventually adds up to the enormous pile of things no longer necessary, but unable to dissolve in her bloodstream. That the new becomes old with every blink. Fresh and exciting, it knocks at your door and you can’t help but have it in, when home is already full of things that came wrapped up in fresh and exciting. After a while, immobility calls itself maturity. She didn’t want to go there yet. She didn’t want to go anywhere else either, but she couldn’t stay put. It would have happened that way.

There was a mountain of herself knocking at her door; it looked pretty, but she couldn’t let it in. It would have torn her apart.

What to do with the beautiful things whose time has passed? She didn’t want to bring yesterdays back around. She only wanted to find the answer.

She missed him, every now and sunset, every sunrise and then, and sometimes, all the times in between. That summer was the greatest burden she’d ever carried around, and getting rid of the rest only seemed to add clarity to it. Andy Warhol said that he hated getting boxes of chocolate, although he loved it so much. The thought of having an entire box of chocolate waiting to be finished was a pressure that took the enjoyment away. She wanted to finish with all of her old self, but every time she got to his gift of love things complicated. She couldn’t enjoy things anymore, and she couldn’t consume them all at once either. Killing love and summer seemed unbearable, even when their time had long passed.

She looked long and hard wherever she found a little bit of him, or her, or truth and hardcore feelings like she remembered her summer. But the world isn’t always a mirror. Sometimes it didn’t show her the details she was looking for — then she knew the mirror trick was a lie. The world was the trace line; all the rest was personal.

What to do with the beautiful things whose time has passed? became the soundtrack of the journey. She couldn’t find anywhere to bury beauty, because she was afraid she’d feel unbeautiful without it. The idea of creating something new scared her too. Liberating far less than frustrating, it would have only added up to the weights dragging her down, forcing her to stay. She didn’t want to stay. Staying also scared her.

Bouncing from one place to the next, she was stuck in fear. Free as a bird, with long, heavy chains around her heart. Her blood was turning colder every night, and she blamed it all on the now unavoidable winter.

By now she knew the answer wasn’t to be found in more films watched alone on weekends, more coffee shared with friends in foolish attempts to figure life out, more pillow talk before yet another sleepless night. The answer wasn’t in any of these places.

Anything can happen. Anything goes, she thought. She’s taken her foot off the pedal. Life could take her places, interesting as they might be they wouldn’t have what she was searching for. And without knowing for sure what it was, she couldn’t abandon something so precious. Who knew?

She wasn’t searching anymore.

The only things that I never regretted doing, not doing or not-doing-enough-and-only-got-to-almost-there were the things that I lived fully. They went through me like hurricanes, leaving nothing behind. No weights, no pictures, no second hand hope. No yeah-but, no what-if, no could-have-been. Nothing, but a changed self. Because what’s the point of all of this, if you don’t let it change you? If change doesn’t end up swimming in my new blood, I don’t want it to occupy my mind; I don’t want it at all.

I don’t know the answer to my question, I never found it. It was what I’d been looking for, but nowhere to be found. Eventually, time lets you live with your seen and unseen, felt and unfelt, lived and forgotten-to-live, but you don’t lose them. You can’t lose something you forgot to lose when you should have, or you forgot to hold on to. You live with the regret and, if you’re lucky, the beautiful things whose time has passed.

But if you do it right, you find the answer to a better question: What to do with the beautiful things whose time is just about to come?

Take them in. Like a hot, hazy July, the afterglow, going places, facing hard questions and deep fears. Like change, so you never have to ask yourself again where to bury the leftovers of summer, because your fire will burn even the ashes, she wrote down.

Forever 21


I know my picture doesn’t look like a birthday cake; that one will be on my Facebook soon. But I thought I’d let you too know that in 30 mins, I turn 21, and my biggest wish right now is to grow as a writer & make this blog bigger and better in the year to come – because everything else in my life is going great, so there isn’t much left to wish for. I’m kidding, but I’ll still keep the rest to myself, because I never wanted to make this space personal in that way. Here on my blog, I want you to like my writing or not like me at all, because this is how I choose to express myself. So far, it’s my favourite way. Way cooler than Instagram too.

Thank you everyone for supporting Strangers and I can only hope that once it’s out, and that will be soon, it will contain beautiful stories written by me and Cristian and you will help me make this wish come true. Also, every like, comment, follow and share is really appreciated! I do notice them, yes.

Until then, I want to show you what 16-year-old me did: secretly wrote a novel that my dad secretly read. Then, he decided to help me publish it. I didn’t appreciate it much at the time, because I didn’t feel ‘ready’. I do now. I keep it on my desk at home  although I’m flying to the UK for another 3 months this weekend, but you know  to remind me that if publishers then liked me, publishers now should love me! Or at least that’s what I wish for my 21st birthday.


Deconstructing Life

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There is a nice apartment over the bakery. It is inviting, relaxing, with an air of elegance and sophistication. It’s where he first opened the door for her, and she touched his face with new love on her fingers and let warmth spread throughout her body.

The whiteness of the kitchen’s walls holds a painting of a dark blue river running wild over black rocks. She thinks of it as her stop-start anxiety, and she smiles. She knows there is a fist-sized hole behind. She think of it as him.

One night, when it was raining lightly outside, she leaned out of the window to wave him goodbye when a hot wind whipped across her arms. It was still summer. He was the kind of man who made her think. He made her think that she was happy. Thinking about it now feels to her like looking over a fence at someone else’s summer.

When she lifted her head up all she saw was snowflakes, so she went back to bed, gently took his hand and showed him to the window. His eyes went straight to her dark coffee eyes. The music faded to a background noise and life stopped and stood still for a while.

Then the blood in her veins went crazy and it started raining.

She loved the adrenaline rush. The girl with vanilla personality and purple prose was dying. There was somebody else fighting to live inside her, who wanted winter over summer, then summer again. Everything and all at once packed up in a big snowball rolled down a hill, faster and faster with every breath she took. Maybe it was the courage coming from the new-found happiness, asking life for more lemons. Maybe it was the frightening something in still life: the smell of death, a familiar sight, nothingness, or maybe everything, because both look just the same. They look like the ending.

He left in a hurry, because the way she used to feel about things was over. He felt tired; tired of living, because life gets tiring sometimes. Simplicity complicated overnight, so he had to move on from the things that weighed him down. The rain washed over him as he walked away. Maybe she likes the rain, because it washed the forever away from her skin and she never liked tattoos anyway, he thought. But she closed the windows to the rain; the house was turning cold.

They’d been shipwrecked there for a long time. They deconstructed life and made a mess, so it was hard to leave. But now it was hard to start building again.

She liked her first great escape. She knew where she was. It was an indefinite moment in time, one that doesn’t get mentioned in stories because it doesn’t exist. Stories have no time for praising the rebels unless it leads to taming them. She was in between stories, jumping from one building to the next, making self-love happen in a heart that always had to refill from elsewhere. She could see the light, and was scared to take her eyes from it again. She wanted better. She could have lived with worse too. Anything, but something more, or less than the flat line.

After a while, she wanted back to their old life. She wanted back, because back felt nice and it smelled like home, and because she had figured things out. Some people are made of light. Some are made of darkness. What am I made of? Most of the time it feels like I’m made of past, she wrote somewhere. Then she ran around her past in circles, struggling to keep her distance, until part of her collapsed. It didn’t feel right. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Her breakaway wasn’t the answer, because the answer felt wrong. Trying to divide times proved to be like drawing chalk marks on water. Life felt liked a burden, but all the months she had spent separating winter from summer and high school from love next to him, putting them on different hangers to create more space suddenly became just as useless. Burdens, she realised, be them him or her earlier days weren’t the reason why she didn’t feel alive.

‘You know what alive feels like?’ she asked him over the phone one month later, when she finally dared to call him.
He shook his head, but didn’t say anything.
‘It feels like now,’ she said, and he could hear a smile in her voice.
It was like a lasso.

The Art of Being a Fan


Originally posted on Cristian Mihai:

No matter who or where we are, we consume art on a daily basis. We listen to songs, go to the cinema, or spend a lazy afternoon enjoying a good book.

But why is it that art is so important? Why is it that our lives would feel empty, pointless, filled with blank spaces without art?

Art is important for a million different reasons: we consume art because it inspires us, because it gives us purpose, motivation, ambition, and it makes us dream. Art shows us a world we would’t dare imagine by ourselves. We consume art simply because it’s beautiful… a beautiful voice can be admired just for that, so is a beautiful painting.

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Warming Me Up


He’s been staring at me for a couple of minutes now and I’m getting uncomfortable. I tried to make a joke to show him that I’m fine, but he didn’t believe me. Of course he didn’t believe me.
‘What did he do to you this time?’
‘Who’s him?’
‘I don’t know,’ he shrugs. ‘I never know this.’
I give him the look, then look away.
‘Nothing,’ I say and take a deep breath.
‘Oh. Then what are you doing here with me?’
Good question.
I rest my chin on my knees and stare at him from behind my curtain of hair. I know he expects me to say something, anything.
So what do I tell him? That people have stained me again with their sad endings, and their sadness mixed up with mine? That pieces of me were spread everywhere and I felt like an empty cardboard sheet where once used to be a beautiful puzzle? That I need him close because in a world as cold as ice, his warmth flows like lava and mine, like drops of blood coming from a paper cut? Do I tell him this? I’m not sure.

‘I just came to talk,’ I say, almost to myself.
‘There we go,’ he smiles. ‘I’d like that. You have so much to say.’
I smile back.
‘But don’t give me facts, dates, definitions. Don’t tell me about somebody who hurt you, about somebody who loves you, about somebody who’s messing you up’  he grabs my cup of coffee and drinks it before I can say anything  ‘I don’t give a shit about that. We all have the same set of stories. Tell me about what you’ve learned out of it.’
‘Ah, I don’t think I’ve learned a thing this time around either,’ I laugh.
That’s all I can say.
He seems pleased.
I am transparent.

‘He did something to you again…’
‘People always do something to me,’ I laugh.’ Or they don’t do anything  which is even harder to swallow.’
‘Let me tell you something,’ he says in a soft voice and takes my hand into his. ‘Mel, you’re bouncing between extremes at the minute. I know you like to feel alive and this makes you anything but lifeless, but anybody can live a bad life. It’s not even called life, it’s survival through shocks. Wild, yes, but still survival. You think that anger is the strongest drug to keep you on the go. It gives you drive and energy in exchange for peace and quiet. It gets you out of everyday’s misery to make you a heroine in your own world, where you fight windmills and guys you meet at the bar who offer you starts of great love stories. It’s a hell of a storyland, isn’t it? I look at you and see the most beautiful present somebody could get, but you’re already wrapped, ready for delivery. You become extravagant, ostentatious, unwanted. You make me question your value, since you give up on yourself so easily. I can see you. You’d do anything to get rid of yourself.’
I hold my breath.
‘You don’t see serene Mel,’ I protest.
‘You are not serene Mel. I’ve never met her either.’
His words are clever and always cut me open.
Perhaps the reason why sadistic Mel always comes back to him.

‘Your anger is starting to work against you. It’s sedating you with ignorance — which is far from bliss like they claim it is, isn’t it? This is the last stage of the cancer of your mind. You’re turning numb, beautiful. Immune to life. And you wanted it so badly.’
I keep looking at the ground, thinking of how I do indeed feel happily ever trapped in the illusion of freedom and boundless energy — the two things that were supposed to be the fuel to my fire. The two things I was too afraid to use, so that I don’t waste them too early and lose them forever. The two things that, when preserved in fear and kept out of freshness, rotted in me and I got indigestion and, eventually, depression.
But he quickly lifts my chin up.
‘I think you’re mind-numbingly bored lately, up there in your little waiting space, so you’re taking all the piles of magazines and wrong people and strong cigarettes and distractions you can find. But you’ve kind of exhausted all options, haven’t you?’
I put my arms around his neck and mumble something, but he doesn’t listen. I don’t blame him.
‘Mel, if the wreck of the day always turns into invaluable memories, how do you expect to keep an open heart?
Dear him.
‘Sad people are like blood clots, waiting there to kill you,’ he says and runs his fingers through my hair.
I’m loving it.

‘You don’t need somebody to lick your wounds if you learn a few things.’
I take my empty mug and go to the kitchen window, but realise too late that it’s been emptied out.
He grabs a chair and comes to sit next to me.
‘There always needs to be enough room in your heart to let the light in, to let new people in, to let better people in. To let yourself in. Never fill yourself up to the top with feelings.
Don’t compare. Something that you’ve filled up with feelings will always incline the balance in its favour. So let the new show you a few tricks before you reject it.
Put your heart into it, but don’t forget to take it back at the end of the day. Your life is the most precious thing you’ll ever have. Don’t give it away to anybody. Nobody needs it.
In the end, stop wishing for whatever it is that you once had. Be enthusiastic about how fast life goes, dig into experiences, dig into emotions, dig into dynamics, but never forget that there is a very fine line between curiosity and superficiality. Never cross it, or you might not find the way back.
Learn to live a beautiful life. Laugh at it and laugh with it, and anything you want — make it yours. Learn that life takes the good away from you only to give you better. If, by chance, you end up with nothing, then know that you are your own best gift from life.
Love more than you crave love, and know that if life takes and doesn’t give back it’s because you have the potential to be self-sufficient in that moment.
Don’t glue all those long-lost, rained over, half-broken pieces back together. You’re better off without them. Don’t dress-up. You work best as an empty canvas, a wide, airy, white room, a clean face — and a tan. Take only what is necessary, Mel. Take only what you love.’
‘I’m not sure about what I love anymore.’
‘Well, it’s two in the morning and you’re having a dumb conversation with, uhm, me. I can point at one thing for start.’

I can feel his heart pounding hard, so I lean back and let him hold me tighter. There’s a sense of stillness in the air. I turn around to watch him. He is slowly moving his fingers up and down my shoulders. I love his touch. It’s always so gentle, so full of life. It fuels me up better than all the love the Universe is supposed to send back to me for being a good girl, and better than bitterness for sure. I mutter something about how sorry I am for driving him crazy. He says he’ll give me all of this in writing and let me have a read, then ask me questions. I want to know what kind of questions. He says that the first question will be why am I still feeling sorry for myself and the things I do and say. I laugh and tell him that I wasn’t serious. He laughs with me and tells me that I’d better not be lying.



It’s summer, dark and quiet up here. Imagine the heat, the lights, the noises — and the girl, curled up on the black wooden chair, chin on her knees, absently looking out over the city of dreams.
I bend over the table for the pack of cigarettes and take one out. I’d ask her to join me, but I’m not in a rush to get her talking. I know we have all night, which is both strange and exciting.
Exciting because she has that je ne sais quoi that can only be found in someone’s eyes, or sadness, or intensity. I look at her and it’s everywhere. It is my second nature to watch people when they’re out of their comfort zone; that’s how I get a feel for my stories. But with her, the more I try to catch that something to put on paper, the more I end up caught in that something else. What something else? Je ne sais quoi, honestly.
Strange because she said over the phone than she can’t think straight during the day, so we agreed on doing the interview after midnight. I have never done this before, so I’m trying hard not to think about how deeply unprofessional it must look like.
As I light up and lean over the balcony, she lets out a heavy sigh.
‘You know, Jax,’ she says, and her voice sounds soft and melodic, ‘If I can make you take pauses while you read me, go back a few lines and take my words in all over again, I’m happy.’
‘Of course,’ I nod. ‘Who wouldn’t be —’
‘But if I can make you look for a cigarette after you put the book down, fill your lungs with smoke and spend five minutes on cloud nine, that means that I did my absolute best. That means the world to me, you know?’
I turn my head over my shoulder and look her up and down. She looks dreamy. I do not know how I will unlock her thoughts later.
‘Don’t you do your best every time?’ I try, hoping to at least catch her on the wrong foot.
‘Don’t be stupid.’ she laughs.
‘You are a journalist, Jax. You are supposed to ask better questions.’
Again I want to reassure her, for the hundredth time since I entered her apartment, that my questions will be reasonable and her answers can, eventually, be turned around a bit. After all, the public knows her as a good upcoming writer and I have no intention to make her look like anything less.
‘Alright,’ I say. ‘You got me, that was a bad question, but it wasn’t part of the interview. I think it would be best to get to know each other first. One look at you and I can tell you don’t like formal either. And look at me,’ I point at my ridiculous attire, ‘smoking my interviewee’s cigarettes here at one in the morning. I can’t look like a serious journalist to you,’ I laugh, nervously. ‘So why can’t we just have a conversation?’
She slowly moves her head in my direction, lifts her eyes up and stares at me blankly for a little while.
‘You are right, you definitely don’t,’ she then says in a firm voice before going back to staring into the distance.
For a minute, I wanted to believe that I had built a bridge there, but sooner than I expected she went back to her passivity and oblivion and I, just as clueless as before, back to enjoying my cigarette; well, hers.
She doesn’t look like the kind of girl that can be read through the lines in one night, and that’s disappointing for the journalist and refreshing and intriguing for the man I am.


I lay my head back and let summer drip down my fingers.
Oh, how I love bad timing! — and the sound of him, moving slowly across the room, careful not to make a noise and break the spell.
I’ve seen the best and worst of 1 a.m., and this is definitely among the best. Sure, not the driving down highways with my head out the window kind of best, nor the hiding under covers with someone I love and pulling down all my walls one. Being close to him tonight doesn’t give me an adrenaline rush or a love underlined, but it gives me the soft good in between, like a sense of self so strong, like digging my toes into the shoreline and knowing that the sea will keep me safe. I know the night will keep me safe. I trust myself at night, even with talking to a stranger whose job is to rewrite me in the morning.
When the sun is up I always find it hard to tell my story. There is something about sunlight, especially in August — it is consistent, enslaving; it has that quality of renewal, of vibrancy, of vitality. It leaves no time for the mind to slow down. Some mornings I find myself alive and don’t know what to do about it. It’s the reason why I spend most summer days lost in words, sucked in, swimming. This is serenity to me, the rare substance that melts my walls and lets me dive into the depths.
Down there, behind necrosed old burdens I forgot to get rid of, I find my solid gold, straight magic and the conviction that the people out here, at the surface of the imagination, are wrong. They leave claw marks onto everything they touch and cry out their wild desire to be chainless. When they ask me if I ever write about them I nod my head, absently. I write about myself, in infinite shapes and sizes. In my ideal world, they wouldn’t make good characters. All my stories are about the girl I’ll never be, the girl I almost am; even the ones about other people.
Rain taps gently on their skin. I’ve got thunder in my heartbeats.
I am out of line. The substance flowing through my veins isn’t hot blood, it’s quicksilver.
The inner world I plunge in blots out the time of day and sends shivers down my spine when I capture its essence and sift it through my fevered imagination. That is the moment of spiritual fire. That is the hallmark of a writing rockstar. I am going that way, all engines burning.


I ask her if she wants to go inside. She says that the balcony is just fine, that she’s not a fan of closed spaces. I try to keep that in mind until I get the chance to take some notes, and ask her what she is a fan of.
Her face lightens up and her lips curl into a smile as she starts counting happy makers on her fingers.
You know when you turn eighteen and forget what seventeen felt like? That’s how the sight of her makes me feel. I follow the subtle moves of her fingers up in the air, wishing I could track the twists and turns of her thoughts just the same.
Friends would ask me why and I couldn’t tell them. They would laugh at me like you’d laugh at a fool almost in love. Readers would ask themselves the same question — what is so special at the girl with hazel eyes and a feel for words that makes me describe her as out of this world? She’s just a writer girl, after all.
But I’d write the palpable truth only, that she is young and beautiful and witty, someone worth looking at for years to come. I find myself smiling. Her expression is promising, inviting. I know it’s a lie, but I can’t wait for her to start talking.
Suddenly I realise that I’ve never read one page of her book. I make a promise to myself that as soon as I wake up I’ll run to the nearest bookshop, buy her book and spend the rest of tomorrow reading it. Only then I’ll put my article together.
‘Speed!’ she says without blinking, turning to me. ‘Yes, I love speed.’
‘You love speed?’ I ask, choking on my words, on my thoughts.
I had my mind made up about her — she likes to take her time, she breathes easily, she chews on her food, she’s got a good mastery of peace and quiet – spicy as she might look like. There is an aura or calmness around her. She is not in a rush to become her better self, like the rest of us. She is already there.
She shakes her head and looks excited.
‘Alright,’ I say, seemingly cheerful, ‘what is it about speed that —’
‘It’s wonderful!’ she says and leans back again, crossing her arms behind her head, feet on the coffee table.
I know this is a good time to start taking notes, and hurriedly look for pen and paper in my pocket.
‘Speed is like this carousel of ferry lights, laughy voices, common sense, heartbreak and wild dreams, all mixing up and blurring together into days worth dying for. It leaves no time to be too shy or too safe. I love that!’
I stop looking for pen and paper.
‘Imagine having fire in your prose and poetry, and lips, and fingertips, blowing over you like winds and waves. Speed, in life, is like having written a masterpiece for writers. I love writing, but I love life so much more.’
I can’t tell if I envy her inner flames or just want to get off at the next stop and write a short blog post about the food and the architecture.
‘I love the open road. It’s the modernised promise of perhaps getting to the end of the rainbow. I love white! Imagine a white canvas in front of you — a blank, white canvas.’
‘Ok.’ I say. ‘What about it?’
‘You tell me. What does it make you feel?’
I scratch my head, nervously, as I realise that the mental image of a white canvas is supposed to trigger some emotion — but it doesn’t, and so I’m just standing there, looking stupid. She takes one good look at me before making sure she shows her disgust. I get angry with my own self.
‘Come on, what’s the catch?’ I ask, annoyed.
‘You fool,’ she mumbles, ‘you might be working for a fancy newspaper, but you’ll never be a good writer.’
‘What?’ I shout, outraged. ‘Where did this come from?’
‘You might be good with words, but definitely not with ideas. You mix together like oil and water.’
‘Don’t change the subject. What was it about that white canvas that…’
But as she keeps to herself, my mind starts unwrapping her words and before I realise, I’m not really angry.
The truth is that she might be right. I never claimed to be a good writer. In fact I write because, as a journalist, I must. I’d much rather talk to people and listen to their stories than make the puzzle back at the office. She, on the other hand, looks like someone who writes stories to send herself to sleep; and she doesn’t just fit the pieces back together. She creates them.
On this note, I also doubt her social skills by now, but can’t help feeling jealous at the thought of someone being able to draw their mind like that.
This is when I think I know what she loves about a white canvas.
‘A white canvas,’ she eventually interrupts my similar thoughts, ‘is where things are yet to happen, so you are still to choose the outcome. A white canvas is the place of all possibilities, where anything you can imagine is real. A white canvas is airy and light and lets you move free and live loud. A white canvas is my definition of the happy ending, I guess, because endings too start at the beginning.’
I understand that tonight, I am a hint of warmth, and she is warmth. Her book will probably leave me speechless in the morning.


I suppose that I let a secret bit of myself slip out when I told him what my definition of everlasting happiness is — the constant thrill of the new start. And it’s funny, because I realise what I’m doing. I’m contouring a whole new self in front of him, the self we both seem to like best. I know that, because I can see him falling for the girl he thinks I am. The most selfish of me wants to go along those lines he traces and fill me up with his favourite colour, to make sure he falls for good.
If only he knew that I don’t take new starts with my coffee in the morning, but I make them later in the afternoon, in between my stories.
If only he knew that I write so I can feel, because if I allowed myself to feel like I write it would be setting myself on fire and watching my years burn.
Suddenly, he comes at my end of the table and shows me to get up. Then he puts his hands of my shoulders and locks eyes with me. I know that gaze. I have seen it before. It’s hungry and unreliable. It’s the gaze of a man whose vibrations and chances would go up or down a level, depending on mine. It’s the look in the eyes of a man I could read off a grocery list before spitting out a ‘Yeah, I love you too’ to him one day. He is the man who would end up telling me that he wishes I’d speak to him as well as I write, that he wants to date the other version of me, that I’m less than I advertise. The man who would end up coordinating my movements, my heartbeats, my weather report, who would crawl into my veins and replace my lava with his perfume, who would pull my eyelids up at night and refuse to let me go back to sleep. It’s the gaze of a man I could both love and hate and I’d be unable to find a shade of difference between one and the other. A man who would drive me insane, not metaphorically, but in real bloody life, who would alter me so badly that he would end up being the one to scribble my last artistically viable words and seal the letter.
There is a saying about the calm before the storm. I always thought of myself as the calm before the calm storm, or the calm before the drizzle. Or the calm before two white, fluffy clouds appear on the sky and turn pink with the sunset. But I underestimated the storm forming in my blood cells, because I was the calm before the apocalypse. And when it came, it asked no one. It hit me hard, like I deserved it. It showed me what writing can do for me, that no man on the face of Earth could.
Writing made me tick like nothing ever did. When I began, my demons stopped speaking over me. Writing took my hand and walked me to those monsters and made them come alive and walk to my beat. As soon as I decided what that beat would be, the monsters stopped torturing me and turned into strong characters and wilder chapters instead. I got to raise the hell within me and wear it proudly on a sleeve. My hell; my rich and alive imagination, like a rainforest with carnivore flowers and mellow, hypnotic music in the background that I used to dread like the longest, darkest hours of the nights when I couldn’t get any sleep. My imagination, I decided, I was going to use it until it bled and shouted that it needed rest, and then I was going to use it some more. Because, despite all, watching my imagination unfolding is like watching God at work – the best part of me, giving its best. Heavenly.
That’s when I decided I like the storm, the speed, and the chaos the most.
I look at him and think of how I’ll take this 2 a.m. and turn it into vivid dreams tomorrow. But tonight – snap and I’m back to myself, whomever that might be — and that’s the beauty of it.
After all, it’s not flesh and bones I want from life, but words. Words, to still my monsters and make me be the best that I can be. The ability to ask people to listen to this page I’m writing in my head as we speak, as we move, as we live. 


She’s lying on the carpet with a cigarette in her hand, twisting her hair on her fingers. She tells me that nature creates man and then it abandons him. That people’s free will is like every other muscle in the body — left unused, it atrophies in time. That sometimes, the full is empty, and other times, the empty is full. A wool blanket covers her lap from the cold. The balcony’s door has been left wide open. I’m taking notes on the large sofa next to it. The night air is stronger now and my back feels cold. She doesn’t seem to mind. In the middle of her sentence, I can’t help it and interrupt her.
‘Do you believe in what you’re saying?’ I ask.
She bursts into a very feminine laughter. ‘Yeah right now, but not that often…’
She hands me her cigarette and I ask about her writing. She tells me that they are like two almost lovers who first met in a bar many years ago, discovered they have a few friends in common and decided to see each other again; but she’s the one who can’t live without writing, and clings to it all the time. Writing is happy to just sip from a cup of tea at the table, in perfect stillness.
‘This is the path I’ve chosen,’ she tells me. ‘And I know it was the right one.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s easy to find it, really. You just look for the one that looks clear. All the other paths have road signs all over.’
‘Road signs?’ I laugh.
‘Yes, road signs, don’t laugh.’
‘And what do these road signs say?’
‘Just the usual: right – wrong, failure – success, happiness – fear. It’s confusing as hell. You’re being told to slow down and speed up all the time. The real fun beings when you get to crossroads and never know what to choose. Your heart is giving you the silent treatment, because so did you. Eventually, you turn to your friends for advice and have debates over things that mean nothing to you, and wonder at how boring life got as you aged,’ she laughs. ‘Your path is clear, and it’s all yours. That’s how you recognise it. You walk down the street whistling, and every now and then you let out your first “This is one on one, you and me, God! And it’s going great!”’
I wonder what does it mean when I feel that I failed as a writer, but decide not to ask her. After all, all roads get bumpy here and there.
‘I suppose the more you write about something, the biggest the desire to live it.’
She looks at me as if wondering if I’m trying to find out her biggest secret —the secret of her aliveness. But rolls her eyes soon after.
‘Bullshit. Great writing comes from great living. This is why you don’t know how to write.’
I’m caught off-guard, and all I can do is pause and stare at her, stretching on the floor, smoking, smiling.
‘Because you lack intensity,’ she continues, knowing that I was waiting for an explanation, ‘because you don’t love your life, so life can’t love you back. You can’t turn such a dull existence into poetry. You can only make art out of beauty.’
This goes against everything I thought I knew about art. Stupefied, I ask, ‘But what about sadness?’
‘Who said sadness isn’t beautiful?’
‘How in the world is sadness beautiful, you living breathing cliché?’ I shout, confused at her ability to lionize everything I run from.
She rolls over, gets up and comes sit on the sofa’s arm, next to me.
‘Take a good look at me.’ she whispers in my ear.


But when I take a good look at him, I realise that I can’t scare him. Not for long, anyway. The man’s got edge, but he’s a lonely soul, so he’s got time to question himself too much. He might be a puppet but he is also the puppeteer.
I haven’t read his work. He hasn’t read mine either, I can tell. He avoids all talk about my book and tries to crayon me as the strong-minded, crazy girl he sees behind this pose. Whatever makes me live, and write, and then live some more with the depth and density he thinks he sees, that’s what he is interested in. What makes me human, where my second hand hope comes from, what I make my decisions based upon – in fiction or live autobiography, which, on a second look, are one and the same.
There is good in this. It’s like a mind game at a first date, no preconceptions.
We’re strangers who seem to have been trapped in space and time – this room, this 3 a.m. is all we have.
So we cheat and we lie to pass the time, and wonder which one of us will give up first, who will be the first to take advantage of whom, who will be the first to tell the truth and nothing but the truth all the way.
For now, his breath smells like coffee and smoke. Mine is heavy.
I keep him guessing, and he draws me closer.
He asks me what is it that I don’t want to show the world, and begs me to show it to him.
I say that it’s everything, smile and remain evasive, ambiguous.
He thinks that I’m fresh and fantastic.
I think he is kind and gentle and take my cigarette back from between his fingers for a nervous last drag.
Soon, I’ll put my drink down and turn the lights on. I’ll wash my glass in the sink and hope to avoid all eye contact for a while.
It’ll take time until he figures that there is nothing on the inside as exciting as he thinks. I am like a veil that any light can shine through, but merely exists in the dark. In his light, I am bright orange, feverish, delirious and silky. But at times, I am opaque black.
I didn’t take my time to contour a fixed personality. I don’t know what my definitions and status quos are. I can answer his every question about my soul, but I couldn’t tell him a thing about the girl who walks down the street in mere daylight, because I’ve never paid any attention to her.
He thinks I am a beautiful mystery.
I think that is a half-truth in any way you take it.


‘I believe in miracles when I create them for myself. I am the witch here,’ she says and points at all four corners of the room.
‘I really need you to stop fooling around and tell me how you do your work,’ I mutter out loud.
‘Why? You don’t know a thing about my work. You’ve been looking at my face and my body all night.’
I start laughing. She gets up and starts walking in circles around the room.
‘Because, as much as it pains me to say, this article won’t be about your face and your body, Mia. Tell me where you find your inspiration – is there a man in your life you write about?’
‘I don’t write about my present, I live it,’ she shouts from across the room, where I can hear water running.
‘That doesn’t answer my question, you know?’
‘Nothing will.’
‘All right, then let me rephrase it: Who are your characters?’
After a while, she finally says something about how every character she creates is somebody she doesn’t get to be in this lifetime. But my God, she says all of this with her hands on my clenched fist, looking me straight in the eyes.
How do I tell my readers about this moment without sounding like a poetic idiot?
How do I tell them anything at all, when all there is to say about this girl is that she embodies a place where magic exists?
She tells me that she is raising a baby Phoenix inside her head. I laugh at the idea and ask her about it, knowing that the public would love such an imaginative answer coming from a young artist. I desperately need something to write about that is not merely my opinion. She says she feeds it with violent feelings, then releases it into the story and cleans up the ashes it leaves behind. I get caught in the game and say this sounds exhausting; but the truth is that there is a certain sadness in her eyes at times. I tell her that I’ve noticed it. She shrugs it off. I assume that it must come out of all the mess her imagination leaves behind. She likes the idea and agrees that I can quote her on that.
I put my pen down on the table and clench my other fist under my chin. I can’t think of her as anything less than the goddess role she is playing tonight, and I’m praying that this isn’t just a charade. I want to come back and fill myself up, again and again, with the beauty of her vibes. Not as a journalist, no; never again as a journalist.
If I could, I’d forbid her to ever write again, no matter how good her writings are. I’d isolate that part of her mind, so she never finds herself face to face with the fears she must write about. I just wish I could hold her and protect her from herself. She is magnificent and this tells me that I’m right when I’m afraid she burns twice as bright, yet half as long. But I know she’d wilt then. Take away her demons and her angels would leave her too.
Instinctually, I grab her head with both hands and drag her next to me.
‘I wish other people could see what I see.’ I whisper.
‘What is that?’
Life outside suddenly seems dull and empty. I smell her hair and think of touches that haven’t happened, but would be the most ecstatic short breath of life I can imagine.
She leans forth.


There was one piece of advice I’ve always liked. It starts by saying that whatever you run to, it runs from you. So how do you get your hands onto the things you’re after? You find out what kind of person is the one who’s got what you want and you become that person, and what you want will come to you. The secret isn’t to have, it’s to be. That’s how you get the things you’re after. You become what they’re after.
I am the writer the world will know about as of tomorrow. I am the girl with the open roads, the white canvas, and the rich imagination that has the power to give people the thrills they’re searching for. They don’t want to dive deep and grab it and make it their own, but I do. It’s painful, but I don’t know many people whose souls reborn every time they put it on the paper either, so they’ll want me. Because they’re after what I have. They’re all looking for what I have become.
Maybe one day I will stop writing and admit to myself — and the rest of the world, for that matter — that I am lost, that I never took the time to get to know my stable self, that the mornings that keep the streets empty for me and the midnight walks and the places I can always call home can’t seem to do the trick anymore.
But for now, I don’t want to wake up from this dream.
It’s too early.
I’m too young.
Jax is looking over the notes. I look from over his shoulder. He asks me if I think this is wrong. Well, like I always say, people get what they want and usually hate if after. But that only happens when they have to choose one thing over another. As for me, I don’t want to choose between life and prose anymore, not tonight. I don’t want to hate myself for choosing wrong, and I don’t want to choose. I just want to live; and write.
And I’ve got a question to ask him.

I told him too, his are really dull.
‘What do you lose, if you get everything you want?’
He turns around and kisses me. I hold my breath for a second, then remember to let go and let it be.

Sharp Prose


He said he was going to write a story about us. I took it seriously. Later, I found out it was. I was excited to hear that we could inspire someone to turn us into literature, even if nobody would get to read it. Maybe some stories aren’t meant to be read. The man didn’t even have a name. I asked, because I wanted to find him on the way back. He laughed at my plan and said we should come back to the village and ask anyone about the craftsman; that’s what people called him. I turned to Kevin, but he wasn’t paying attention.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked him, irritated.
‘Going through the man’s stuff, what do you think? Do you want anything?’
‘Yes, I want you to hear this.’
‘Hear what, Ava?’
‘That he plans to write about us.’
He lifted his eyes and looked at us both, then laughed for a couple of minutes before going back to the little wood sculptures. The craftsman’s eyes were laughing too; I couldn’t imagine him laughing wholeheartedly. He was only smiling, looking peaceful and wise.
I wanted to hear about his idea so badly, even if he was going to forget it the moment Kevin and I got back to the car and go further down the drive, to our mountains. We were heading north for no reason. I said I wanted to get away from the city, he pointed north; soon, his intensity and my restlessness were on the road, and Kevin’s face looked happy for the first time in months. We thought we made a formidable team. Deep inside, I knew something was screaming ‘wrong’, but I didn’t know what it was. I only knew it had my voice.
Kevin kept going through all the abstract sculptures with a genuine interest, but I knew he wasn’t going to buy anything. I also thought I knew him inside out at that point. His patience bought me more time to talk to the craftsman. Short of breath and thrilled at the thought of being seen through someone’s eyes and put on paper, I asked him what it was going to be.
‘Sharp prose,’ he answered quickly.
I had never heard of sharp prose before. Again, I turned to Kevin, but he was still not paying attention. ‘What is sharp prose?’
‘Ah, I thought you were going to ask. Everybody does.’
His remark instantly tempered my enthusiasm.
‘It’s the kind of prose that hits you, like a knife into the flesh. That’s how strong it comes.’
‘Oh,’ I said, frowning. ‘When you read it, or when you write it?’
‘What’s the difference?’ he laughed, then shook his head. ‘The answer to your question would be both.’ He stared at me for a couple of seconds. ‘Even when I watch you two.’
‘What is so inspiring about us?’ I asked, somewhat confused.
‘I am a craftsman, a musician and a writer,’ he reminded me. ‘It’s my job to find inspiration in everything. You might want to rephrase that.’
‘Alright then…’

I looked around, trying to clear my head and come up with a better question. There was no better question, though. We were the only ones who could have known why stories should be written about Ava and K. Our wildest moments, followed by our desire of a safe place to be in with a glass in one hand and the world in another, balancing life as we pleased and all the scraps of life that couldn’t inspire anybody because they were like treasures buried on a remote island, when all this man has seen so far was the water. We weren’t talking, we weren’t even looking at each other. Kevin was still playing with the little figurines, I was still angry at him for not being the mirror they tell you a lover is. How could this be inspiring? How could this say anything about the richness of our times together, the gaps in our lives, the length of the story?
I turned to the strange old man and measured him. He was going to write, no doubt, but was it going to be beautiful? Sharp prose suddenly didn’t sound interesting to me anymore.
I went back to the car.

Days before, I woke up and opened my eyes to the sun shining through the blinds. The guys were talking next to me; she was laughing at his every joke. I closed them back. I don’t like other people, I said to myself,they take too long. I’d already be up on the mountains if it wasn’t for them. I can’t see why they’re here, why we have to travel together, why God can’t give me one damn day to be happy, as a sample to show me what I’m missing out on.
The other guy got up and turned the radio on, then gently shook my left shoulder. I couldn’t pretend to be asleep anymore, so I opened my eyes again.
‘I knew you were awake,’ he said. ‘I saw you.’
‘Wonderful,’ I said, sarcastically. ‘I was indeed, you woke me up.’
‘No we didn’t,’ Kevin shouted from the front of the van.
I lifted my head and looked at him. He was sharing a drink with the girl. She liked him, no doubt.
‘What’s your girlfriend’s name?’ I whispered to the guy’s ear.
He huffed and looked at her. His face was in the sunlight and I, dizzy as I was, couldn’t stop staring at his skin, jawlines, lips.
‘She is not my girlfriend,’ he whispered and made me smile. I knew he lied, but I was happy he did.
I looked back at Kevin. He seemed happy; so did the girl. So did us, I was sure.

The new guy had his own music and insisted to play it. It sounded nice and filled me up with good vibes. Soon I got up for good and we were ready to be on our way again.
I sat in the back, with her. She told me they were going nowhere when their car broke down, halfway there. He turned around and smiled at us. I understood exactly what that meant. I told them Kevin and I had been there, and this was our great escape from the nothingness we found. They both laughed and nodded their heads, and I knew they understood me too. Kevin was, I assumed, concentrated on driving.
It was still early when we went to the café. Kevin asked me something and I agreed; it turned out I had agreed on another stop. We went in for breakfast and the other girl sat next to him. I didn’t mind.
At first I didn’t know the new guys’ names and wanted to ask for them, but as the time passed I felt more and more embarrassed. When Kevin agreed to take them with us I didn’t pay attention to what they said. They were strangers joining our road trip and I could only hope they would leave us alone again soon. Kevin laughed at my worried face; said we left to have fun and this was what we were doing. Strangers, however, weren’t my idea of fun. He told me to loosen up. I locked myself inside my head and threw the key out of the car’s window.
But the unwelcomed seemed to have found it the next morning. I felt more and more drawn to him as my Kevin and his almost lover were getting closer to each other. So were we.

I’ll call him R, as I found out later what his name was, but it isn’t relevant to the story. In my head, he will forever be a black spot with a white R in the middle, like a milestone on the road. R was charming and smelled of new, of rain on the roof and instant coffee and freshly cut grass, and my quest for perfection stopped right there for a while. I didn’t want right or wrong anymore, I only wanted fading colours on walls that weren’t home. He told us he didn’t want to be anywhere else but on the open road with us, in the back of a café, writing future plans on a white napkin. He longed for the clean feeling that only being away from what hurts can bring. I wanted to know what hurt, but he said it’s different for everyone, so I could just think about my story for a while; in the end, it feels just the same. He had a story that he didn’t want to share, and while his friend and Kevin were fine with that, it left me curious and impatient. R laughed at me and said that mind-wandering is not the same as travelling; that mind-wandering would eventually tie my arms and legs together and force me to live inside, which was the thing that frightened him the most. I thought he was wonderful from a distance, but stubborn, untouchable and difficult to love, after all.
‘I just want to know who you are,’ I remember telling him.
‘Then get to know me,’ he said. ‘I don’t need to tell you complicated stories from the past. Look at me, absorb my words, my looks, my gestures. This is my only truth. All the rest are fractured realities with a taste of imagination. Osmosis.’

I tried to sleep that night, but nothing; and then everything, all at once. I was exhausted to the point of insomnia. So tired I couldn’t sleep, and so tired I couldn’t live. I turned around and R was sleeping peacefully next to his friend at my left. Kevin was in the back, fidgeting in his sleep. I was wide awake, no matter what, so I took my sweater and went outside. The air was stronger up there, which, for the first time, I didn’t mind. I lay on the grass, counting stars and rethinking the trip. I spent what must have been hours in the back of my head, with an imaginary bottle of red wine and dark sunglasses on as the stampede of what-ifs had its fun in front of me. Detaching was hard. All I could do was wait for them to pass me by. This time, the cold air and R’s words changed the usual. They were the new dreamscapes, the new voices, the new smells of wilderness and of unfamiliar perfume in my world. R’s words came roaring through my mind, loud and eccentric, like the black spot on my light-coloured map of life. They seemed to be screaming from the top of his lungs, in his strong voice, almost covering my own. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. R was different from me in a way that I couldn’t understand. He didn’t want to accept the burden of the definitions life had already given him, while I couldn’t think of myself in any other terms. I suppose we were like matching ends; he began where I ended, and the fine line between us were the limitations we couldn’t live with or without.
I felt my head spinning for hours that night. I liked R and wanted to think of how to tell him that. Yet eventually I came to the conclusion that I only liked him because I wanted to be more like him. But it was going to take me time to learn, and time is nobody’s friend when they’re in a group. If I ever wanted to be like R, I had to detach from him and teach myself in silence from everything I was left with after being in his noisy presence.

The next morning, after we had breakfast, R and his girl told us they wanted to be on their own way again. We were in the craftsman’s village when they asked us to stop the car. They were going to stay there for the night and leave the following day. I asked them what their next stop would be; they both said they were still going nowhere, and laughed together. Kevin and I looked at each other and knew that it wasn’t real. She didn’t have a crush on him, as he didn’t have a crush on me. They were just a glimpse of another world, and every other world eventually becomes your own when you enter it. There’s an infinite number of worlds around us, as there are people and places and absurd possibilities. Worlds are born and destroyed all the time, sometimes in the same day, sometimes as soon as they are created. Craving for new is very often pointless, for the new is rarely new and it almost never stays that way for long.
Kevin and I saw an illusion walking away from us and silently decided not to mention it again.

‘What would the main theme be?’ I finally asked him. I got bored of sitting in the car by myself.
‘Estrangement,’ he said without even blinking. ‘I’m happy you came back, I already know the beginning.’
I rolled my eyes. I was right, he knew too little about us.
Another few minutes passed until I grabbed Kevin, telling him that it was getting late and dark outside. I couldn’t wait to finally enjoy our trip like we should have from the start. The man waved goodbye and reminded me to return to see him. I, on the other hand, was determined not to, and thanked him but said that I wasn’t interested.
‘You should be,’ he told me. ‘It is, after all, a story about you.’
‘Yes,’ he laughed, ‘you and you alone.’
‘I don’t understand. You said you were going to write about us.’
‘No, I said I was going to write about you. Look for me when you come back, will you?’
Kevin laughed at the strange man and so did I, but my mind suddenly changed. He was anxious to write a story about me and now I desperately wanted it, so I turned back and asked him to write it on the spot. He said he only knew the beginning for now. I said that would be perfect, so he smiled and said he would be right back, then went inside. Kevin was getting impatient but I asked him to wait. We had a quick lunch in the car, with our eyes fixed on the little house. Eventually, about forty minutes later, the craftsman came outside with a piece of paper folded in his hand and gave it to me. He told me to read it and come say hello on my way back; he would try to write some more. I was a different kind of muse, he said.
‘Different how?’ I asked as I put the piece of paper in my pocket.
‘You’ll read all I’ve figured out so far,’ he ended and waved goodbye again, while still close to me.
For a while, I didn’t feel like taking the paper out. I was terrified of what a man whose smile never seemed to fade could have written about a girl like me. Then there was the thrill of knowing that someone’s thoughts were resting, unseen yet, in my pocket. It gave me an energy that I had been lacking for a while. Kevin didn’t say anything. He was waiting for me to read my story and carry on with the day.
When we left the village, I took the paper out with both hands. We were driving with the windows down and the wind was strong. I had to tie my hair and hold the paper between my teeth. Kevin laughed; said to be careful, that we’re not going back for another one. I wondered what another one would have been like, in that case. Would the craftsman even write a new one? Would he change his mind in the meantime, and make the new one entirely different?

There are two strangers outside my house. They are strangers to each other. One is Ava, the one who doesn’t belong. She doesn’t want to be here, in The North; in her body. She doesn’t want to be in the presence of somebody else. She is next to her lover, a man she isn’t herself around. Ava is quiet and evasive. She has many secrets that she’s left in places she’s forgotten now, and all there’s left is bruised noise in an empty warehouse, deafening her; they’re all inside her, she just can’t remember how to reach them. Ava is irrational and seductive, like a blurred vision of a promised land. She is not the promised land; she is the blur. Ava doesn’t know she is a stranger; she thinks she is her lover’s lover when in fact, she has run out of love a long time ago. I tried to capture her soul and when I couldn’t, I thought I lost my ability to see beyond the surface and write about the essence. Ava is dust, floating around the air in sunlight. She is so soft, so easy, so lost she can’t be grabbed by the heart and drawn onto paper. She has run out of essence. She is a stranger to herself.

I like Ava. She is light and beautiful. I can see her at a jazz concert, her brown skinny fingers around a bottle of beer, her presence opening doors to another world. She is slowly moving through the aquarium of feelings she’s trapped in, or to the rhythms of music. She hasn’t caught fire yet, but she is already conscious of the blood pumping through her veins and her heavy, fearful heart. Men try to buy her another beer; she keeps dancing on her own. Soon, she is one with the night, unaware of the others. This is how I see Ava reunited with herself – playing her part like fire and water, burning on the inside, icy cold on the outside; a stranger to all but the lost and found self she is steadily moving into. As the water cools down, she begins to laugh with men and women at the bar, but her heart is still fast, still steaming. At her best, Ava is lovely, with no other boundaries than the ones she makes; at her worst, Ava has no roots and no substance. She is her lover’s lover without loving herself first, a light presence that has a hard time being present in her world, her time, her self. A mix of unrefined particles carried from here to there by her thoughts, like snow carried up into the air in wintertime.

I suddenly felt Kevin’s touch on my shoulder.
‘Well, what is it?’
‘I… it’s sharp prose.’
‘What is sharp prose?’ he asked, amused.
‘It’s the kind of prose that hits you, like a knife into the flesh. That’s how strong it comes.’
‘When you read it, when you write it, and when you live it.’ I lifted my head up and he was looking at me like maybe I had lost my mind reading it.
‘Give me that,’ he said, but I tore the paper in halves and threw it out. ‘What have you done that for?’
I put my head out the car’s window to take a deep breath and cool off. The wind was even stronger. Kevin’s hand was on my back, pulling me inside.
‘Do you want to go back?’ he asked in a serious voice.
I looked at him and thought that, no matter who our new friends were or what the craftsman thought about me, the last thing I wanted Ava and Kevin to be was strangers. It didn’t matter that sometimes, we were; maybe that was the beauty of it. Maybe that was also the truth, but I swear it felt milder. I was going to write a story too, I thought, and this time it was going to be about the two of us. Words have the power to change minds and hearts. Words change the world.
My smile was genuine after that. It was all it took to feel my heart get warmer; knowing that I, too, had the power to write sharp prose and reshape the world I belonged to.
‘Never,’ I said.
‘I’ll keep driving north then, close the window if it gets too cold. And tell me what that old man wrote about, will you?’
‘Never,’ I said again, and laughed.
‘I’ll have to get back and get my own story then,’ he smiled.
‘I’ll deal with yours. I’ll make it even better.’
The truth is, maybe some stories really aren’t meant to be read. Some you just write. Others, you share. And ours, for now, we live.

When He Tries to Show Back Up in Your Poems


How do you know you’ve stopped loving someone? It must be when you see them take all of their masks off and shiver cold in front of you, and you take only a hurried look at their cracks before you look away. When their nervous breathing doesn’t move you anymore. When their fragility doesn’t make you want to hold them.

I slept next to you, your body moving against mine.
It used to feel like fire and water colliding.
Like my best hit my worst,
like your good wolf bit my evil,
like I’d reached your North and heated it up,
then took it to the South.
There was a boundless warmth between us, melting all of our sadness into a feeling so strong that we grabbed its matching ends and prayed that it held us forever.
Underneath your map of scars found the faraway kingdom,
the one they wrote all the fairy tales about.
I was enchanted.
You used to call me your princess when the night came
and we would finally sneak back in.
But no one ever told the story of the queen,
time stops with the taming of the young and restless princess.
And I was all yours.

My days were cold and my nights were burning.
You lit a spark I thought only real poets get to see
when they come to accept their loneliness-bound destiny.
I didn’t mind the slippery ice,
for all my thoughts were liquid fire.
Soon, I was travelling from North to Hell and back every day,
every night,
every secret encounter.
I was weakened,
Tonight, I saw you and felt nothing at all.

I was refreshed, as if my soul was brand new.
As if I had woken up from a long afternoon nap
and I was ready to go out there and face the world,
without your flames burning my back.

I’ve already wasted so many words on you.
I was done with befores, afters, even right nows.
I let my mind go blank, until the world became close to abstract.
I laughed to myself on the way home, fastening my pace.
I had nothing that night, apart from delicious, icy fresh air to breathe in,
and old stories of you to tell no one.
But I’ve already wasted so many words on you.

Seasons in Full Speed


It was summer when, night after night, we fell asleep with fast hearts and hurried dreams of sunlight, heavy air and summer rain. You kneading my spine and pulsing through my veins, me promising myself that happiness never hurt anyone and, if worst came to worst, misery is always refundable. Seconds diffused into days and memories in the making as I was holding your hand, growing luckier day by day. One morning, you said that you had never seen a spark before, that most people don’t sparkle. I felt beautiful and a little broken and believing all at once, trying to laugh myself out of my fears, knowing I was light years away from being the brightest star in the Universe but your eyes were so used to darkness that even a shred of light could blind you. Like dust particles exposed for twenty seconds by summer sunshine before moving back into the shade, happiness lasted until late August. Then you held me an extra second, enough to let me know that it all meant something to you too.

Then it was winter, coffee cups, train stations and flowers in strangers’ hands celebrating lovers’ day. Everything that was once so familiar had transformed into thin air and blankets of snow along the sidewalks, avalanching into my every atom as I breathed and building me up as the unbeautiful version of the fever I used to be. There was a ghost town in my head and millions of explosions at the verge of my skin. I caught glimpses of them when the nights grew cold and I couldn’t sleep, so l began to tell myself real stories about the girl who once lived inside my body. This new heart could not be mine. It beat too slowly, like memory flutters of what was once young and alive and was now somewhere else, where there’s warmth and hope that one day it might become the brightest light in the darkest night, like an old lover thought it could. They called it wanderlust, and told to me get away for a while. I called it winter. The winter of my heart, when the power of my body went off and the rain came down for days; and this time, days diffused into months.

I leaned back and waited for the winter to push silently into spring once again, watching others from behind tea cups and listening to their stories. I couldn’t help noticing how once their story line drifted towards the loved and lost, their shaky fingers struggling to squeeze the loneliness out of their skin to make themselves desirable again, made the saddest image in the world. Soon, I couldn’t stand the sights of the friendly eyes of dogs, human touch and contagious smiles. But after seeing enough, the world started to make sense again. I pressed fast forward and skimmed through the absurd to find deep connections and patterns at every step. And it was this how I found you again, through words scattered on cafeteria napkins stained with coffee rings when I wasn’t even looking.

Speed, the most magical of things when things aren’t on your side. There is so much beauty in that unstoppable force that makes all the colours blur together, in the mix that brings everything together more hurriedly, that puts everything in motion. In between cherry trees and icy winds you find uncommon sense, bumpy roads and a carousel of lights and sounds and car flashes and laughy voices that spins so fast and uncontrollably that all you’re left to see is beauty. A rush that mixes the good with the bad, the old with the new, the feel of every moment you can’t wait to forget and every moment you clench your teeth into and want to keep for eternity. Speed has a melodic hum of its own that makes you walk to the beat and take sharp turns, that doesn’t give you time to sleep and weep. You flames grow high, like the branches of a tree that bursts into fruits and flowers in the heat of the moment. The summer of your life becomes nothing compared to the most heavenly hell that living at full speed allows you to be in. And when you have fire in your prose and poetry, and lips, and fingertips, what are you if not the brightest star in the darkest night, what are you if not a star in the Universe, what are you if not one of those who shine so bright that blind other for a second, then teach their eyes to take the light in? What are you if not the beauty that will save the world?



We are all leaning on lamp posts, steps away from the spotlight. Who are you? The child who is afraid of the dark, or the adult who is afraid of the light? Either way, you’re losing. The volcano and the spring come from the same source, but one is explosive, reckless, wrecking, destructive; the other one is…

But that’s not what I want to tell you. That’s not even what I want to tell myself. That’s the page I ripped today, because I didn’t like its truth.
We’re in my world now, and my world I’m allowed to shape and stop from going to sleep tonight.
On my playground I come alive and it’s spectacular, regardless of what happens when it’s time to go home.
I burn bright with shiny, sparkly words, decorate my walls with beautiful paintings and have large windows in every room.

In my world, I meet you in smoky bars. You wear a hat and the kind of clothes I wish men wore more often outside vintage stores. There’s a cigarette hanging out of your mouth, one that you take out every time you pause and smile. You look kind and gentle and tell me story after story, and teach me how to love after storm. The way you talk is like Heaven bursting into flames, giving me the thrill of a lifetime in the safest of all places.

In my secret world, I let you see right through me. I don’t play hideaway and, ironically, I keep no secrets. Here, I break all silences and illusions with a breeze of words and wonders. It is a magical, sacred place, and I have the mightiest power.

I wish I could show it to the whole world, but I fear that people might walk in with their dirty feet, and it’s my one and only refuge. But every now and then, thoughts like you show up and make a mess, leaving me breathless for days. I get us drinks, take a seat next to you and laugh at your jokes, because you’re refreshing, and mad, and pure — and I can always recognise others like me.

I know you’re real, but you have imagination stains all over your face. I’ve filled all the gaps with cotton candy and fell in love with a man who brings me poetry and mystery. I wish I could be sure it’s you. I’m trying, I’m trying so hard to let you shine through. I do my best to listen to you, to feel the taste of your every word, your every experience, your every state of mind. I’m just overly excited at the possibility of having found someone beautiful, that I’m afraid I also made up miles of you. I’m not sure how much of you is really you and how much is me now. I finally understand the vampire myths. You want to suck on beauty, on youth, on love. On life.

Every time I remember that not even I can stay here for long, sadness melts into my bones. Sometimes it’s closing time in my world too, and I’m once again torn between reality and promises, between your imperfections and my highs, between consistency and intensity. Between my madness and my life.
And my God — as indecisive as women can be — I know that I might be the spring in the outer world,
but in my inner one I will always choose intensity.
I will always be the volcanic girl.
I will always be that flame that burns twice as bright, even if half as long.
I will always run and dance and spin on the fine line between the rain on my skin and the stories I write to send myself to sleep.

I know I can’t be here forever, because the flames would surely burn me alive, but I’d rather be pushed out at the end of every show than never make it in. I’d rather have a feverish mind than a heart sucked dry of feelings. I’d rather live easy days and hot red seconds than let let the world uncomplicate me for blue evenings at an outdoor table, where I could never blow magic dust on the ways I see the world in. And, more than anything, every now and then as the curtains close behind me, a lava stream makes it through. It pours into my writings, into the world, into your worlds. That alone would be worth bursting into flames for.



Our bodies brushed together. I was pushing myself closer and closer, not because I wanted him but because I didn’t want myself. For a couple of minutes I remembered what it’s like to be young and scared and wanting so badly to give yourself away, because you don’t know what to with all that’s been given to you. You do it with eyes wide shut and a burning desire to never get yourself back. There I was again, trying to negotiate my peace of mind with any stranger  since God, who has, at this point, turned into some sort of business partner (I’ll be a good girl, just please make this and that come true) seemed to have run out of it.

His grip got tighter as the minutes and our acquaintances passed by. His body was cold, his breath smelled of alcohol and mint and his skin, of cologne. My senses returned, either to make me aware of the danger this man could have been, or to tap me on the shoulder and encourage me to enjoy the moment. All I knew was that my mind stood still when I was in his arms, and so I felt free to laugh with my mouth, my eyes and my exhausted heart so loudly that I gave myself away. His eyes moved up and down my body again, then he pushed me away and walked out of the bar.

I followed him outside. It was grey and it started to drizzle, and I liked the wind and the sound of cars driving on the wet streets. Somebody offered me a drink. I did my best to find an excuse not to take it and made my way towards him, and told him my name. It was the simplest thought that crossed my mind, and maybe it could make everything else just as simple.
‘It’s Mel,’ I said, trying my best to look at peace with myself. ‘Just Mel.’
‘No one’s name is just something,’ he said in a deep, resonant voice that sent shivers down my back.
‘Mine is.’
‘How come?’
‘It just is.’
‘Let me guess, you’re such a disaster of a girl that you don’t even want to be known by your last name, in case someone you have fooled would like to find you one day.’
‘That’s not quite what I said.’
‘My point exactly,’ he laughed in my face. ‘So I can’t get your full name until I fix you, huh?’
He had big, green and quite friendly eyes, and the way he was looking at me was sort of
‘Mel, what do you want from me? You weren’t flirting with me earlier, like I thought you were.’
‘Even I thought I was at first,’ I admitted. ‘I guess I just want you to give me a few more bricks to add to being just Mel.’
I tried my best to sound funny, but I knew I did not. The look on his face changed and he took a moment or so to think of what to say next.
‘Well how in the world did you expect me to 
‘By distracting me and showing me that there is more to life than this,’ I said in one breath, pointing at my own head.
I was hoping he was good at miracles.

To be fair, I expected this to be just another story. I wanted to turn left, then right, then right again and go further down to the nearest café or shopping centre to get a happy ending for my day. I wanted to feel alive for a little while, until it wore off and I had to go home and write again, tell a story and give it a nice turn at the end.
I didn’t bother to ask for his name, like I didn’t bother to tell him all of mine, because I wasn’t going to be who I am every day or on most nights. Tonight, Mel was going to be just Mel, the girl with beautiful eyes and a map she spilled water onto so she doesn’t know where to turn left and where to turn right, then right again, and where to go further down until she reaches her destination. Tonight, Mel was going to be the girl with beautiful eyes and a desire to go places, even if she was still standing still, talking to strangers and trying to figure out a way to break free.
But unlike most strangers, the green-eyed man wasn’t easy.

‘I’ve nothing to give you,’ he said. ‘You have to go out there and get your own pieces. Mine might not fit, and you’ll end up even more broken than before.’
‘How much worse do you think it can get? According to you I’m already a disaster.’
‘Of course you are, look at you. All pieces, random little things collected from here and there and them. What are you going to do if mine aren’t useful either? Keep them for better days? You either let go or get dragged. I won’t contribute to what it must feel like the weight of the world on your shoulders. If only it would have made you stronger. You look exhausted.’
I started balancing on one foot, nervously.
‘But you’re in my story,’ I shrugged. ‘I came here tonight to find something to help me fight the loneliness and predictability of real life. I came for inspiration. I chose you, now you have to give me fuel for life of some sort.’
He smiled at me. He had a friendly smile too.
‘Oh, you look genuinely disconcerted.’
‘I am,’ I said, confused. ‘You can’t be in my world and refuse to be a part of it. I’m living this with you and you’re not giving me much to live right now.’
‘Alright, Mel, if that’s how it works I’ll play along. You want something to help you make sense of all the pieces, don’t you?’
‘Yes, and that’s where you come…’
‘No. Stop taking breaths of life from your twisted imagination and turn them into your life story. If I’m part of it, this is where you let me do my thing. This is not how you live. Stop making people up, too,’ he winked at me, and I suddenly felt very vulnerable.
‘Then how do I live?’
‘Easily, Mel. There’s only one thing that can change these boring surroundings you always come to for refills.’
‘Live more.’
Gently, he touched my cheeks and my mind stood still again. It was like he wasn’t part of the place, part of the story, part of this world, my world. He didn’t feel like the rest.

My senses had been out of tune in my comfort zone  of course. I had been there and lived those things so many times before, that looking for new experiences that could put my wheels back into motion was like looking for the needle in the hay.
But somehow, I found him. I didn’t make him up. Even if everything else was only a projection of my mind, I knew for sure that he was the most real thing that happened to me in a while.
‘Live more! And get rid of everything here, this party is a bore and so are you when you start talking about yourself. It’s okay to be Just Mel, to be dizzy and distracted and lost, for as long as you don’t always make such a drama out of it. It’s intriguing, refreshing, beautiful, and it leaves you room to live more. Don’t be so easily defined, remember? (‘How do you know…’ ‘Because we’re in your mind, remember?’) Live more than this, this is too old. Get out there. And make sure you don’t know where that is.’

Car Parks at Midnight


My job as an artist was to create life out of nothing, but the nothingness was thick and sticky and I couldn’t shape it. I was supposed to take little bits of your dark days and turn them into magic dust and chocolate sprinkles and things none of us believed in but looked good on paper. I was supposed to make the black come out of dark caves and turn into silver lines. I was supposed to be the girl to make emotions happen, but I couldn’t try them on first. I kept wishing for a handsome stranger to come out of nowhere and read out loud the words I had written than afternoon, and a dog to jump on the bed between us and coffee to be spilled onto the floor. Life would have made a stain in that second, enough to ruin my perfect ever after. I would have been forced to carry on living with imperfections the size of coffee stains on white bed sheets, and dog hair on my clothes, and unexpected smiles at the wrong time. But in real life, I was forgetting how it is to feel the rain on my skin and his love under it.

The truth is that safety is not a friend. Or if you like, safety is one of those friends who moan all the time because the weather got colder and the film got boring and they can’t find their matching sock. Safety is negative vibes if you dare to move. You’re sat down and forced to listen and obey — do not move that vase from the table or you will ruin the harmony and the alignments and everything you’ve ever done will fall apart. Safety tells you that you’ve surrounded yourself with perfection; do not reach it anymore. It’s there to be contemplated in silence. Do not enjoy it. Do not touch or use, or anxiety will grow on you like bacteria. Indulge into knowing that you’ve done it, that you’re sorted, that you got to Heaven. That you are as good as dead.

Which is why hearing somebody turning a what should have been a midnight ambiguous, delicious and slightly sexual conversation into yet another promise of security was, in that split of a second, blasphemy pulling the trigger of my automatic escape mechanism. Much more than the promise of safety I wanted the promise of never having to settle for a life of flipping through the pages of encyclopaedias to catch a glimpse of wilderness. I was scared at the thought of never walking through car parks at midnight again, hand in hand with someone who could teach me the art of having a loud heart and a quiet mind, shivering cold but with his warm coat and warm smile on.

My only wish was outside the wish jar. It was the world, beautifully simplified and not showing its teeth to me at every turn. It was me minus all the weapons and the accessories and the promises I had to keep at every step. It was the richness of the moment that I didn’t want to feel guilty about not living anymore, because I should have been somewhere else, with somebody else, being something else. I wanted a hammock, a lake and foggy weather so I couldn’t see ghosts’ trace lines, burning hot coffee and the smell of second-hand books surrounding me. I craved icy cold freedom and open fields that didn’t have a maze, a labyrinth, a catch; a goal at the end of the road that I’m running towards, like a dog for a bone or a frisbee. I didn’t want to be in the game anymore, and I felt forever done with stretching and curling in bed at the memories of long-missed bliss, grieving over old agonies and yearning for new ecstasies. I was looking for more nights that felt vivid and surreal. I was looking for walking through car parks at midnight, hand in hand with somebody who’d have me surrendering my love and my fears and not thinking about dawns.

“There is another world, but it is in this one.” — William Butler Yeats


‘It’s 3 a.m.,’ I say.
What I really mean is ‘I want to go.’
Someone once said I had a taste for running away, a superficial serenity of mind and a distributed intelligence that keeps me away from the depths of life. The truth is that, well, they must have gotten one or two things right.
But tonight I want to make my way into his heart and forget that there might be something greater around the corner, and I should just keep floating. Tonight I just plunge into it, because the surface is getting cold and crowded and my head is spinning a little. Yet there is the little voice that tells me how it’s too soon to be fragile, that everybody loves strength and why showing anything less is a mistake that can cost you all future possibilities. And so I want to leave, because I don’t want to stay the night only to play it tough. I’m never tough past bedtime, or around men like him.
‘It doesn’t matter that it’s 3 a.m. There will be another 3 a.m. Come.’
As we step outside the bar, he zips up his coat and his cheeks are red and I can’t help wondering what my life would become if I left with him.
‘Actually, there are only so many tomorrows, until you run out of them.’
‘What?’ he laughs, and lifts my chin up. ‘You never know, we might live forever.’
You know that spark they talk about in movies? The one that you only get with the guy who tucks you in at night — before he find out that you’re engaged to his best friend or have made a bet about dating him, and after he takes the first plane to your hometown and proposes to you in front of your entire family? I think that is, more or less, what I felt when he touched me.
It was electric.
‘There will be no other 3 a.m. like this one,’ I say. ‘They will all be boring.’
To hell with strength, it has always been my weakness. The next thing I know is I’m sinking my face into his shoulder and my nails into his back and I’m hoping that wherever he wants to take me — if anywhere at all — it’s in the wilds of the world and there is no fixed time to get home.
‘I can’t let them get too boring, then.’
‘Why is it only about you?’ I laugh.
‘Ah, I’ll tell you everything later.’
I shrug. I don’t have a suspicious nature.
‘Fine, we don’t need to talk about your troubled childhood yet. But at least tell me what’s so wrong about boring 3 a.m.s. That’s what they’re for. This is an exception.’
His grip gets tighter and tighter and my breath stops for a little while. I think I understand what I dislike about all other nights — they don’t go like this one.
‘No. 3 a.m. is for blur, noises, city lights and stories about half made-up pasts,’ he whispers into my ear. ‘Your eyes glowing in the dark, shivers, warmth, goodbye kisses and caresses on your hair, plans, scars, your smell, the smell of moving on, the smell of home. ‘
‘Well, that’s one big contradiction there at the end,’ I mumble.
I realise that he is strong, much stronger than me. I feel slightly embarrassed and look around for a cab. I don’t know if I can put up with yet another guy I feel so small next to.
‘I just told you what your options are.’ he smiles. ‘What else is there to do? Hey, I’ve got something to ask you — I’ve always wanted to.’
I’m sure it’s going to be one of those questions guys ask at the end of the night, like ‘So, do you like movies?’, or ‘Which way do you go now?’, or even ‘Well, this was nice. Right?’
‘What breaks your heart, pretty?’
Ah, thank God he isn’t boring when it comes to endings.
‘You, right now.’ I say and start looking for money in my bag. ‘What do you mean you always wanted to ask me that?’
He laughs and thinks I’m funny.
Well, at least I get that.
‘Really, what breaks your heart? I think this is the kind of question everyone shold be asking one another. This is what we all want to know about people after all — what makes them human, what makes them tick. I could never think of soemthing that would break you.’
‘Me? Why me?’ I laugh, and he smiles at my laughter and I am somehow beginning to feel a warm connection between us coming to life. ‘I don’t know what breaks my heart. Indecisiveness, maybe. Like, what do you want to do now? See?’
I’m shivering and I’m torn between wanting to go home and wanting to play this game for the rest of the night.
‘Ah. I knew it was this one!’ he smiles. ‘I’ll have to work on it soon. You can’t look brilliant on paper if I don’t understand who you’d be in flesh and bones, can you?’
I frown.
‘You lost me…’
‘Nevermind, nevermind. I’ll take care of this tomorrow. For now, come…’
So are we going together from here after all?
‘But of course we are. I want to spend as much time with you as I can’ he says, and in all the excitement I forget to ask where we are going after all.
‘I’m taking you to where you belong,’ he says as if answering my thoughts.
How strange. It must be that connection thing…
‘I see. My place or yours?’ I laugh.
‘Yours, you fool.’
‘Fine. Just know that it’s messy, and I’m almost sure we should have gone the other way instead.’
He looks confused, as if wondering how come I am this easy. The truth is that I’m not even sure where my house is right now, so I don’t worry.
‘I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,’ he says.
I have no idea.
‘I have no idea.’
Suddenly, he puts an arm around my shoulders.
‘I do. It’s this way — because we’re taking the shortcut.’
See, I don’t precisely know what we’re doing right now, but the feeling of being myself around someone is the greatest high I can hope for at 3 a.m.. It makes every alternative feel like a waste of time. I almost wish these streets would have no end.
If only things were always light and simple.
‘I really hope you never again end up leaving a party with a stranger because you’re not sure what feels worse, being alone or being used,’ he says, completely ruining it. ‘When we get to yours, I’ll pour us another drink and tell you my story. That should help.’
‘Oh, because your story is supposed to change my life?’
Another drink or not, his new-found arrogance would probably keep sobering me up.
‘If words don’t change the world, I don’t know what does,’ he smiles. ‘And I’ll tell you another thing — beauty will save the world, beautiful.’
I choke on my words before they come out right.
‘I’ve heard this one before, but I must tell you that I’m no god and neither are you because you left with somebody tonight. We’d all be little gods then.’
He stops and shows me that we must turn right. I nod my head; he is right.
‘You know, you do look like a goddess to me tonight — ‘There we go, Romeo’ — and either way, yes, we all are gods. What? You don’t believe that everything we create is real?’
‘See, at this point I’m not sure if you’re charming or creeping me out.’
‘Charming, just charming,’ he laughs.
Sometimes I think that a strong instinct is the worst part of being a woman. It prevents you from having all the fun.
‘Fine, you got me,’ I say. ‘I surrender. I’m sorry, I’m the mess here and you can be disappointed. I know that tonight I seem a very easy catch, and maybe I am that.’
He doesn’t slow his pace and I’m wondering what is it that I’m still doing right that he wants to walk me all the way home.
‘I’ll find a way to have you fixed by the time I finish my story,’ he says. ‘It won’t be tonight, but I will think of it.’
‘That’s great news, all figured out then.’
We get to my place and I reach for the keys. I know it sounds stupid, but by now I can’t help wanting to listen to his story. Something tells me that one way or another, it will have an impact. Or maybe he just knows how to sell himself to women.
‘I promise you it will,’ he whispers, as if telling me a secret, and I freeze with my hand up in the air.
‘You promise what?’
‘That — what you said to yourself. I promise you it will make you understand things.’
‘Are you talking about…’
‘My story, yes.’
I’m staring at him and he stares back and I can see that he is progressively realising what he just said, and he is not happy about it at all. At this point, curious as I might be, I’m beginning to reconsider my options and whether or not I want him to come upstairs, keys still in my hand.
‘Look, as much as I like it when guys can read my mind…’
‘Just invite me in already,’ he says, impatient. ‘ I should have made this part short, just in case. It’s freezing out here.’
‘Hey Lucifer, watch out, I haven’t given you my soul yet,’ I try to make a joke in a thin, shaky voice.
I don’t think he got it. Concerned, he takes a few steps in my direction, until his face almost touches mine. I should be thrilled, but instead I feel restless, as if the timing was wrong or this was not supposed to happen at all.
‘Listen, this is not about your soul, I am not the devil. Real life is hard and I don’t know how to be out in the open with girls like you. So give me a chance, will you? I know you’re feeling as if God’s suddenly pulling the wrong strings, but I never thought of what the right ones would be in this case. I mean, this is absurd in my book — us on a date, this is not in the story, you know? This… we’re just making this up on the spot, as we live. Damn. This is what I hate about life — it is so unpredictable! I almost wish I would have stayed home to write tonight, because I feel like I’m making a fool of myself now and I’m not sure what to say anymore. Everything I say is only making it worse, isn’t it? Ah, I’m lost for words. Help me out, please.’
‘Are you crazy?’ I shout and push him a little. ‘What story, you creep?
When he gets close to me and runs his fingers through my hair, his smile gone, I know that the story is going to be about me. It was never about him. His touch is electric indeed, but I fear it’s for all the wrong reasons.
‘The story where I don’t die, and I get the girl too. I wrote that. And yes, it’s all about you. But this is not how I want to tell you about it. It’s not as if, regardless of what happens tonight, I’ll still be able to change you tomorrow morning. It can’t be that simple, because this is happening too. Do you understand? This is still part of it. Whatever is written can never be unwritten, and I’m pretty sure that’s how life goes too. So you need to give me a hand here, I can’t let you fear me or hate me.’
I want to sit down. I came home with a schizophrenic. I just wish somebody walked past us.
‘Everyone’s asleep,’ he says. ‘Actually, I don’t think there’s anyone alive at all. I didn’t write about others, I didn’t mention the neighbours, I didn’t exactly create a whole world from scratch…’ he bites his lips, nervously, and I am dizzy enough to still think that is sexy. ‘I’m so not good with endless details, Mia.’
‘Wait, what? How the hell do you know my name?’
I take a step back before allowing myself to lean of my front door and feel paralyzed by fear.
‘I gave you this name. I also made you stand up for yourself when you need to and right now, I kind of regret that. I tried to make you as good as I could think of, honestly. You do like Mia, don’t you?’
The night feels surreal and I wish it was only because of drinking.
‘So why didn’t you write wilder chapters, where I’m bolder and stronger and I have the world at my feet? I would have thanked you in every prayer, damn you…’
‘Please,’ he says, ‘let’s go upstairs. I will tell you everything.’
‘You bet you will!’ I say and, before he can do anything to stop me, I pick up and throw a small rock at my building.
We both stare in silence. Soon, there is broken glass all over the pavement. I guess I overdid it…
‘Hey, what the hell is going on down there?’
An angry man in striped blue pyjamas threatens us with his fists from the second floor’s window.
‘It’s half three in the morning, you drunken idiots!’
I look at God, God looks at me, and we both know we’ve messed something up. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I shouldn’t have come home with a stranger and break Mr Norris’s window. He probably thinks he should have included more details in his story, so I would have fallen in love with him and stopped swearing by now. Soon after, we’re running up the stairs to my apartment, talking about how little coffee I’ve got left. He says he blames himself for that. I tell him not to worry, writers think about characters and plots, not how much coffee imaginary women have in their homes. He smiles and I must admit that he is quite good at this whole charade. He then asks me if I think he is crazy. I stop, turn around and ask him the same thing.

‘You look pretty insecure for someone who claims to be my maker.’ I say to him. ‘But you’re good at making coffee, I’ll give you that.’
He shakes his head with a slow smile. ‘I told you,’ he says quietly, ‘I’m not following the storyline. There is no storyline for tonight. I couldn’t have seen this coming. We’re making it up, it’s all just as absurd to me.’
‘Running into you.’
‘What’s so incredible about it? You gave me a free night, I had every right to get out of your story and go get drunk in a bar.’
He bursts into a wholehearted laugh.
‘You should have made me immortal too. That would have been pretty wonderful.’
‘What for, Mia? You never take any risks’
‘Excuse me? What do you call this? By the looks of it so far this must be the biggest risk I’ve ever taken,’ I say, looking at him, then around the kitchen.
‘Exactly. And do I look like I want to kill you?’
‘Ah. Well, I could have at least been Golden Girl by now, don’t you think? The truth is that I’ve never even made it to the loving myself checkpoint. But you know that already. Do you like messed up girls like me?’
I know that he wants to touch me, but I show him not to.
‘Honestly, was this all just a very elaborate plan to make me have another drink with you, or do you actually believe it?’
‘Come on. Do I sound like a living, breathing cliché?’
‘Then tell me, how did you jump inside the story? This is too much to be just a coincidence. You wrote a new chapter, didn’t you? But it was about you this time. Why didn’t you at least change the scenery? You know I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico.’
He looks me in the eyes as if this is something serious.
I’m not as good with role-playing, but I try.
I like him, in a weird, twisted, friends-would-blackmail-me-forever way.
‘I didn’t write anything like that,’ he finally says. ‘Think about it, why in the world would I want to meet you in person in the first place?’
‘Because I am the girl of your dreams, I imagine,’ I say, dead serious, and take another sip of coffee.
He looks amused.
‘Do you really want to go to Mexico?’
‘Doesn’t God know everything?’
‘I’m not God.’
‘You’re my God, aren’t you?’
‘No. If I was, I’d make all your wishes come true.’
‘So write a new story where they do.’
‘I can’t, I don’t know what you wish for.’
‘I could make you a list.’
‘Mia,’ he says and puts his hands over mine — I let him this time, ‘I am not a magician, ok? I just write and write when the evenings get long and nights get cold, and the solitude dissolves in me like sugar in’ — he points at my mug — ‘your cup of coffee. It’s peace and quiet inside my head when I write about you, and I like it. That’s all I wanted to do, write some more. I never had any intention to… breathe life into you. I should have known that everything we create is real indeed.’
I can’t help but laugh at his fancy words, then yawn and laugh some more.
‘You’re drunk, my friend.’
‘Maybe just mad.’
Yet I play along, because it’s still early and I could do with a magic start of the day.
‘So you’re saying that you went out to your favourite bar tonight, with nothing in mind but to have a couple of drinks before you went home and got back to writing your novel about me, right?’
He nods.
‘And then I showed up there, and you couldn’t believe that one of God’s waste of words is walking around like she owns the place. “God damn it — or I damn it! — I should have made her better-behaved, rebels are only good in books. Who does she think she is? I’ll get her drunk, take her home and tell her everything, so she learns a lesson before I get to write it into her”, huh? See, I’m curious, how did you know it was me?’
He looks a bit embarrassed.
‘It’s funny now that you ask, because I never wrote anything about your looks. But there was this vibe, I don’t really know how to put it into words…’
‘Said the master of words that can change the world,’ I say in a slow voice, almost to myself. ‘What’s your name anyway?’
‘My name?’
‘Yes, your name.’
‘It’s M.’
I laugh.
‘Alright, alright M. And the name of my father?’
‘My father. What was his name?’
‘How am I supposed to know that? I told you I didn’t think about your parents, or coffee, or the clothes you like to wear.’
‘Or the fact that I really want to visit Mexico.’
‘Or that.’
‘Or my deepest fears, or my favourite colour, or my date of birth. Right?’
‘What are you doing, Mia?’
I move closer to him in what it is a quite obvious manner, and kiss him on the lips.
He looks terribly confused.
‘You didn’t see that coming, did you? You never wrote a single paragraph about the kind of guys I like or whom I want to kiss over my kitchen table at four in the morning. You never wrote about my father and pretend you’re not good at details, but you forget that I can’t exist if he didn’t. You don’t really know much about me, and you sure don’t know as much as you claim. You’re just good with words, and I’m drunk enough to believe them.’
Now, however, his lips are curled into a smile and he is twirling my hair around his fingers. Wrong plan, I guess.
‘Then it’s true,’ he whispers. ‘Words do change the world.’
I lean back on the chair and roll my eyes.
‘Just go, you’re nothing but a professional liar.’
‘And an amateur writer.’
‘I don’t know that, but I’d sure like to read everything you pretend you wrote about me… no, you know what, forget that I said that.’
‘Listen… no, don’t look away, listen to me. They never thought that I, in fact, only leave when I’m in shallow waters because I’m ready to dive into deeper ones. I never leave because of boredom, as if I wasn’t boring myself as well, nor because I’m the lonely wolf type, and I surely don’t leave because I have the attention span of a goldfish and thus its ability to empathize with others. I leave because the world is mine, and what a crime to waste my chance to embrace it. Breathe!’ he says as he caresses my hair and my back, after repeating my very own thoughts from the other night, word by word, back to me.
I can’t take my eyes off of him.
‘You forgot to breathe, Mia!’
‘It’s ok, you do this every now and then. It won’t get you killed anyway.’
‘How do I die then?’
I can’t think about what he said; about what I said. I can’t. I can’t…
‘You don’t die, silly,’ he says and lights up a cigarette.
‘Burn me!’ I say.
‘You don’t die in my stories so far, I mean. I don’t know how or when you’ll die in real life. You’re clearly more than just a character. A burn won’t get you killed I suppose, but it’s best not to try anything that would just for the sake of proving me wrong.’
‘What if you’d write a story where I die? That might get me killed.’
‘Perhaps. I’m not sure how this goes.’
‘If I’m nothing but a product of your imagination.’
‘Hey, I think tonight just showed us that you’re as real as you can be.’
I’m thinking that, if this is real, then this is a moment that should stay in his history – God physically comforting one of his people. And it’s all happening in my apartment. I can’t wait to tell everyone.
‘Maybe I just resemble your character, M.’
‘No, you are her.’
I know that everything so far sounds insane, but as I reach for pen and paper I actually have high hopes.
‘Write about me. Let’s go to Mexico!’ I whisper and give them to him.
‘You know that’s not how it works,’ he says. ‘I have to believe in what I write.’
‘So what do you believe in, if not a beautiful life?’
‘Oh, Mia… I am so sorry. If I believed in a beautiful life I would have never written one story.’
Pressured, he starts writing and I clench my fists and gnash my teeth., hoping for something; for everything, for anything. But when he hands me the piece of paper, I mutter out loud the words, then tear it in halves.
It said: I created someone in my writings, I created a human being out of paper and vivid imagination. At first I thought I created Mia to hurt myself, to run my fingers through her soul and see what’s it like being inside a beautiful mind. To contrast and shame me at my worst, to give the best of me to my favourite character; the best of my imagination. Then I figured that wasn’t true. Mia isn’t utopic, she’s real. Mia is here, she is accessible. She isn’t an unattainable trophy, but my hidden treasure. I didn’t create anyone, for she was in me all along. And, despite all, watching my imagination unfolding was like watching God at work — the best part of me, giving its best. Heavenly.’
‘Are you kidding me? I wanted to go to Mexico, or at least be prettier or smarter. What is this bullshit?’
‘I’m sorry, but these are the only things I believe in — you and my ability to write. I wasn’t interested in the plot, I just wanted to sketch a person.’
‘Oh my God — and now I know for sure that is not you — to hell with you and your ability to reshape me then! Big fat liar, that’s what you are. You said you’ll fix me in the morning, I don’t feel any better. Or maybe you’re just sick, M. Have you ever thought about that?’
I’m too tired to kick him out, so I’ll just rely on his ability to read me this time.
And it’s probably working. A few seconds later, he stands up and says: ‘Mia, I’m going to go get myself killed.’
‘No you’re not,’ I say. ‘God, I’m so stupid — and so are you!’
But when he slams the door and I hear his footsteps on the hallway I shake my head, get up and run after him.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I shout.
He is all the way down already.
‘I told you, I’m going to jump in front of a car or something!’
‘That’s immensely stupid, why would you do that? And what about me?’
That’s two floors below me and I know I wouldn’t be able to stop him if he was actually serious.
‘I want to see if our next date will be in Heaven or Hell!’
‘But I don’t want to die yet!’
‘So don’t!’

When I can no longer hear him, I go inside. It’s five in the morning and I’m wide awake as I stretch and curl under my blanket, still feeling the taste of alcohol on my lips. ‘I’m alive,’ I tell myself over and over again, but I’m afraid to go to sleep. I know that I’ll have one of those nightmares again, and this time it’ll be ink that pours out of me, not blood.
Eventually, I put a coat on and go outside. I’m cold and tired and I expect to see an ambulance any minute now.
I walk for what feels like hours until I give up and slide down a brick wall, back pressed against it, head in my hands. There is no one awake — or alive, as the man I spent the strangest night of my life with put it. ‘Just wait until you tell everyone that you’ve met your own personal Jesus,’ I say to myself and start laughing like crazy.
But then I hear that familiar voice from up above me.
‘Up here, Mia!’
‘Hi God, what a miracle!’ I shout back, without looking.
‘Get up here, it’s cold!’
‘I would, I just don’t know where the elevator to the ninth cloud is!’
‘Have you tried inside the building?’
When Voltaire said that God is a comedian, he must have known something.
I finally see M looking out the third floor’s window, waiting for me to go upstairs.
‘I’m coming,’ I scream, ‘you hear that, you insane god, I’m coming to read from your book of secrets!’
Someone wakes up and pulls the curtains.
‘Hey, who’s that?’ I ask and point at the first floor window.
‘Miss Granada, why?’
‘Did you make her up too?’
‘Just get up here!’
‘Hey miss Granada, it turns out you weren’t good enough for him! Apparently I’m the girl of your artsy neighbour’s dreams!’
The front door opens and I get inside the building. An old man just going out looks me up and down.
‘What, have you never seen a character going off script?’ I ask, then run all the way up to Heaven’s gate.

‘Are you crazy?’ he asks and pulls me in, looking terrified. ‘You’re waking everyone up.’
‘You tell me if I am! Why do you worry about the neighbours, they aren’t real, remember?’ I laugh in his face until he cracks a smile too.
‘There you go, God, life is beautiful — or you still don’t believe that?’
‘No, no, no,’ he laughs, and I can tell he is nervous, ‘this isn’t a two-way street.’
‘Tell me about it. I can hardly make you laugh, whereas you wrote my way to your place. Life really is stranger than fiction, or maybe it overlapses it.’
‘Mia, I didn’t write anything about you coming here,’ he says and lies down on the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling.
I reach for his pack of cigarettes, take one out and sit down on the floor, taking it all in.
‘So how did I get here then?’
‘I’m not sure, but I’m not surprised either. I told you that I am right and you will always be a part of me. But take a look,’ he says and points at his laptop. ‘Have a read. I wrote that about an hour ago.’
‘Weren’t you going to die or something?’ I mumble and take a seat, then go through his text.
It’s one short paragraph — a disgusting sort of coincidence about a girl who makes friends with her inner dragon and asks him to share the power. They share a long moment of silence, both on the same side, no one trying to split anyone’s head open to decide who rules her world next. At the end, the dragon dissolves into her and she finds a place she can call home. Then she reaches for a pack of cigarettes and sits down, contemplating the surroundings.
I stop reading, despite his cries to finish it, and tell him that my head is spinning and I’m going to throw up on his desk.
‘It’s only natural, you’re hungover.’
‘I’m a mad man’s thoughts on a blog, that’s what I am.’
‘You’re a living, breathing, beautiful girl, Mia,’ he says from across the room in a low tone of voice, ‘I just happen to know you really well.’
I put my chin on my knees and stare at him for a while.
‘You don’t believe it’s just that.’
‘I don’t really believe in much anyway.’
My God is an atheist. Oh, the irony.
‘You’re a coward.’ I say. ‘You would never kill yourself.’
He smiles at me.
‘I think I just did.’
‘You just wrote a stupid story where you free the girl, what’s the big deal? You fight life with words, and it seems that even your own words fight back against you. You say I’m not very brave, but you’re not exactly a superhero either. You’re just a scared boy playing God every night, who just ran into Lucifer.’
‘You’re not the devil either, Mia.’
I burst out laughing so loud that he has to shout to ask me to shut up.
‘Do you even hear yourself? Is that the best you can come up with to save a ruined date?’
‘I told you this — no, I wrote you this when we were in your kitchen. You’re that part of me I wanted to save, so I wrote about you. I just didn’t think you were going to… you know… exist. Or I was ever going to bump into you.’
‘This is too much for one night, do you ever wait until the second date?’
A couple of minutes later, he tells me to go sit next to him on the sofa. I go. He is probably sick, but for some reason — maybe because I feel like I’m inside a good film — I just need to figure it all out.
‘So you wrote about a fantastic girl because you still believe in making homes out of humans. Am I your safe haven, the best thing you have to make up for your lost faith?’
‘You are, in a way,’ he admits.
‘Well then, I guess I turned out to be pretty flawed, judging by our first 3 a.m. spent together.’
‘You weren’t meant to be perfect; just raw and real and beautiful. I’ve watched you all night, you make me proud.’
‘Thanks, I guess. God, this is awkward.’
‘M for you.’ he laughs.
‘I’m sorry, you aren’t funny anymore.’
‘I know, I know, I am sorry.’
I look at him with a frown, then look away. He tries not to laugh at me.
I try not to laugh with him.
‘Do you remember what I told you? That I write stories where I don’t die?’
‘And then you try to see if getting ran over by a car will get you killed, yes. By the looks of things, you really are immortal.’
‘I wasn’t going to do that,’ he laughs, ‘You know that. I just came home and…’
He has a wide smile, but I can tell how nervous he still is.
‘As much as it pains me to say this, I wrote the ending and I need you to finish that. Then I’m done as a writer and you’re free as a bird,’ he says and shows me the laptop again. ‘Tell me what you think. I’m doing this for you.’
‘Nice try after everything that’s happened, but I think I’ve seen enough.’
‘Just read it all, please, then you’re free to go. That’s all I ask of you. This is crazy for me too.’
I give in. I take the laptop on my knees and start reading again. As I scroll down, there is another paragraph indeed. The girl’s name is Mia, and judging by the other details included I can tell it’s the end of a long, complicated story. I also notice the length of the document, but only scroll up to convince myself there is a story after all. My name appears in most paragraphs. I can feel his gaze and then his breath on my shoulder. I’m shivering again, but try to control myself.
‘Jesus. You made the dragon vanish, but let me live? You’d make the perfect boyfriend.’
He ignores me.
How do I still feel stupid around him, after knowing he’s insane?
‘Aren’t all geniuses insane?’ he laughs. ‘But I think we’re even now that I’ve released you. The dragon dies, Mia, I gave you the lead ropes back. So much with the false, imagined immortality I got by playing God every now and then. I don’t think I’ll ever create another character.’
I’m just about to laugh, but I can’t.
I will never finish understanding this.
‘Well, I’m not leaving, I tell him. I’ll never find another guy who goes clubbing, reads my mind and writes like a god.’
The truth is that I am exhausted and I really like his house.
He looks surprised.
‘Well then, stay. Do you want breakfast?’
He goes to the kitchen and I go through the text one more time. There must be a catch to it.

I’m standing by the kitchen’s door.
He is so good-looking. Shame about his distorted reality.
‘When did you write that?’
He thinks about it for a minute.
‘It must have been five or six in the morning, right?’
‘Half five. I don’t know what you usually have for breakfast’.
‘I got here at seven. How did I still find your house if you had released me by then? Surely me reading that didn’t make a difference to how your writings turn into reality.’
He looks at me, puzzled, his smile fading.
‘I don’t have all the answers, Mia. But we must be bound together, somehow.’
Bound together as in you will always have some power over me?’
‘I really don’t know what to say to that…’
‘It’s almost funny,’ I say, walking around the kitchen like a lion in a cage. ‘You’re trying to play both Adam and God. I hope you at least call me Emancipated Eve in your next stupid literary attempt.’
He looks genuinely concerned. I don’t know why I’m still here. He asks me to hold his cup of coffee while he brings the laptop to the kitchen. I ask him what’s going on and he mumbles something about figuring stuff out. I roll my eyes.
After typing something quickly, he closes it and comes take his mug back, puts it aside and swirls his fingers around mine. Electricity runs through my body, wild and intense. I suddenly don’t want any of us to ‘figure stuff out’ anymore, and admit to myself what a nice feeling holding his hand is.
What is it about this man that I can’t pull away from him?
‘If you were to go anywhere in the world right now, where would it be?’
Before I can say anything, he kisses me and I know I’m trapped in one of the most beautiful moments of my life. My body is pumping energy and joy to my every cell. Happy, yes, I guess I am most of the time. But it’s just plain, ordinary happiness, the ‘there’s a cookie, chew on it and keep quiet’ type. This time, I feel alive. And I don’t think anybody has ever made me feel alive before.
‘Nowhere,’ I say, amused. ‘Why? I just want to be here and uncomplicate you.’
I’m not ready to wake up from this and sigh back to reality. Like a selfish little Cupid, I want to see us together for a little bit longer. At the end, or should I say, the beginning of the day, we belong next to whoever we are happy with.
‘How about Mexico?’
So much for warm, fuzzy feelings. There goes a cold shiver down my spine, then a warm one, then a cold one again as I go to his laptop in a hurry. There is one phrase on the screen, only one. It’s quick, it’s nothing. It’s something. It’s everything.
If I am right, then she falls in love with me; and also stops swearing.
I can see him in the corner of my eye, smiling and cooking breakfast on this warm, late August morning, when the whole world seems to be dead. Ah, I should be so happy here, if only he didn’t pretend to have fallen from the sky. But when I realise that it’s 8 a.m., I swallow what feels like hot rocks and rush to the window. There isn’t a single person out there, driving to work or walking their dog. The world seems emptied out of all the details that makes it come alive.
‘Do you like spicy food?’
His voice cuts me open.
I get a sudden urge to pray to God, but I remember that he is probably next to me and could tell what I’m doing.
‘Do you?’ I ask back.
‘Then I guess the girl of your dreams likes spicy too.’
He laughs and I take a deep, deep breath.
‘You’re mad, M,’ I say in a thin voice and try to smile.
He turns around to look at me and I’m not sure if I love him or I hate him, or both. I guess it all blurred together in the end.
‘It sounds like I’m quite a dream come true too then. Don’t girls like mad artists?’




‘I don’t want to tell you who I am,’ she whispers just as I’m thinking how much I want her to keep talking. I want her to talk to me until I know enough to make her the main character of a novel I’d never even thought of before her.
‘You don’t have to,’ I say, ‘but I would love to discover you.’
‘Create me, then.’
She takes my hand and wraps it around her waist, and as I hold her I think that maybe this girl shouldn’t be out there. I shouldn’t think of her as a character, artistic as that might be. She doesn’t need to belong to the world. She doesn’t even have to belong to me. Some paintings aren’t meant to be exposed, they’re only meant to express something. To keep flirting with God’s masterpiece feels almost embarrassing. I just want to capture her essence and remember it forever; but then I remember that she is in my arms and I hug her tightly one more time. I don’t want to waste this second with stupid attempts to immortalise it. It’s fading already. She reaches for the lighter, and we share a cigarette in silence, shared loneliness, noises of the streets and of the skies.
I don’t care who she is, I’m in love with her already, or I’m in love with the man she’s turning me into  it’s too early to make the difference.
Tomorrow is all up to her, but for now I’ll shut the windows and lock the door if I have to, because tonight she won’t slip through my fingers.

An old almost lover wrote this about me. I still remember it, word for word, like some kind of lovely curse. It makes me smile when I run out of reasons.

Well, people do what they want and usually hate it after. Eventually he hated it when he found out that what he thought I was wasn’t really me. The next morning, I ran back home and vanished from his life. The truth is that I don’t know how to be out in the open. I never did.

The grass did look greener on his side, but I knew I wasn’t going to make it all the way there and frankly, I didn’t want to. The only place where I allow my feelings to exist is in my art. Any form of affection I felt for him that night was nothing else but fuel to my fire. As for him, he was only a raw sketch, an undefined character, inspiration. That’s about how much people like him mean to me — and it’s funny, because I’m talking about people at their most lovable, when I want to wrap my fingers around theirs and read with my feet entangled to theirs, and think of never letting go. But I don’t, because thinking creates feelings, then feelings kill the mind; so much for thinking.

I should have told him that from the very start, should have told him Baby, nobody can give you them so you can be you, because that’s just not the way it works. Write until it’s strange and quiet inside your head, then sleep on it. You’ll wake up feeling fresh and strong and I’ll be nothing more than last night’s mysterious girl. You can not possibly love such a thing. Love is either mutual or stupid. There. A few more seeds in the ground.

But of course, I didn’t. I let him trace me, line by line, until a wave of warmth washed over me and I felt as safe and sound as a girl like me could possibly feel; because in the back of my mind, I’m always waiting for when the spell will be broken by a phone call, hunger or daylight. Then I’d just lie there, gnashing my teeth in frustration and covering up my soul before he’d turn his head to look over the shoulder and smile at me, as if we were still surrounded by magic. But instead, that’s when I escape.

I’ve learned that I am the ultimate ticket to happiness.

They say they want to discover me, I tell them there’s not much to see. In a way, I’m not lying. You know all those things you’ve always wanted, but thought they aren’t real? They aren’t, because you haven’t created them yet. Before they’d want to touch me again I’m gone, cold, magic dust or whatever they like to call it.

He sent me the note a few nights later, through a mutual friend. There was a P.S. too. It said: I used to think it’s the daylight that breaks the spell of night. Now I know it’s girls like you who do it.
Despite it all it felt like swallowing hot rocks, and I tore the paper in more and more little pieces.
But I still remember it, word for word, like some kind of lovely curse. 

Wilder Chapters



There’s a certain beauty about being a mess too; painting outside the lines, outstretching your arms for things at top volume, at their most difficult, at their most needlessly complex, only to remind yourself that you are alive, that you are fresh, that you are worth fighting for. It’s the other side of ordinarily beautiful, the side where you get to when you fall right through the cracks and think you’re flying. If you like explosive, fragile, mysterious, effervescent, wild, the day you land is your first lucky day in hell, and you are the brightest fire.

I was radiant. The free fall came straight after following the little trail of cookies that led to the dark side. I knew I’d end up in scary places, but I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t choose the outcome consciously. I wanted the free fall, as much as I wanted the sweetness and danger of losing control.

Harmony is overrated when the bad parts of you are alight all the time. Eventually, you accept that you can’t tame them anymore. You want to be less scared, less anxious and more willing, but your guardians never sleep. You are so afraid of the life pulsing through your veins that you could die and not notice that something’s changed. The only way to get the lead ropes back is to make friends with your inner dragon and ask him to share the power and the cookies, for that matter.


I was the one who always tried to force the endings to go my way, because I couldn’t stand the unhappy ones. The sick had to get better, I had to get what I wanted. My sanity depended on it. Ah, I always had some sense of discomfort with the world, of not quite fitting with it, and every now and then I fantasised of a precious time when nothing had real consequences and wanted to get there, maybe once or twice, just to see if it feels good to feel nothing. But in the real world, the endings had to match my visions.
Then I met him.
It was spring and he made me feel wanted, and I craved nothing more.
But our paths with someone can become these tangled, knotted messes.
There was a particular look to his eyes, a kind of heaviness. I wondered what it was, I could never find it in me.
He was the one who taught that fear isn’t frightening if you don’t hang out with it:

‘Why do you talk about fear in the third person? Fear doesn’t have an identity. You are the fear.’
He also taught me about the hidden side of love:
‘Of course, love is a great way of finding comfort. But you love me for all the wrong reasons, like the pleasure and need for the many definitions I can give you.’
‘I’ve never felt suffocated by your presence,’ I replied, saddened by his words.
He kissed me on the forehead.
‘That’s because you don’t have a world of you own, baby. That’s why you were so eager to make room into mine. But even in my world, you remain a misfit. One’s inner world should never be invaded, it should never be shared. It’s built on grounds that you’ll never fully understand, and you’ll always be cold and starved in it. Are you happy, sleeping on the couch night after night?’

He was the last person I was vulnerable with, before understanding that complete vulnerability is anything but strength. It’s you losing to yourself, to your dragon, to your inner goddess. To him. To life.
Being yourself isn’t about being your weakest self.

It wasn’t about starting over, it was more about the silence. That moment of perfect silence that you share with your dragon, both on the same side, no one trying to split anyone’s head open to decide who rules your world next. You look at him and see how terrifying and strange and beautiful you could have been, something not everyone knows how to love. You wonder if that’s why they don’t love you, then you remember you aren’t there yet. You still have to develop this leathery toughness and grow some thorns on your back  like the ones on those hip denim jackets  but you gain strength from him with every breath you take, together, quietly, contemplating the city lights from your top floor window. Things seem so sharp and the world seems so fresh and you begin to like who you are, or who you might be. You see the life in brighter shades even without having transcended into another dimension, one with better coffee and longer nights.

Firstly, you begin to take more meaningful breaths, as if life actually means something. Then you realise how out of touch with it you’ve been, so out of touch that you had no interest and respect for new experiences anymore like you had closed the door to life’s upgrades. Suddenly, you’d not only lose your roots, you’d cut the whole forest down, plus a few inches below ground level just to make sure it never grows back again. You dream of being out there. In the light. In the dark. On the back couch of a nameless café. Somewhere under the sun where you can grow young and strong again. You’re curious to know what it’d smell like, what it’d feel like sleeping there. How you’d be there. You can almost sense it. Curious, imaginative, active, intuitive, inquisitive, quiet. Strong minded. Crazy. And God would lean closer to Earth to watch your every move, rubbing his beard and smiling, for you’d be the closest of all to have been created in His own image.

The world doesn’t give us the time to recreate ourselves from scratch. Maybe it’s its way of saying that any change we make is personal and should stay private. Life went on all around me to remind me that, but it was fine. I was knee-deep in and I loved it. There was something inside of me; something restless and playful, like my body already knew. I was becoming one with my shadow, and all those memories that would fire at times when I didn’t want them seemed another life. This time, I didn’t need much; only fragments. The rest I could invent myself. When things got bad, I closed my eyes and let them pass me by, then got up and changed direction. I was out there. In the light. In the dark. On the back couch of a nameless café. No hidden catch, no mind games and no 5 a.m. drama, tears raining from my eyes. I couldn’t do that anymore. This time I was everywhere, flaming, intense.

He thought that my new-found energy must be exhausting. I thought that was is exhausting is still waiting. I remembered waiting. Waiting was when life was waking up, waking up, waking up, a series of repetitive, promising actions that kill the potential and the soul. And tomorrow? It was buried six feet underground every night. Suddenly I was on the run, and my intensity felt light. His inner indecisiveness was a long stormy night I was sick spending under the covers. Staying in bed all day was not poetic anymore. I didn’t need his hugs, like ropes wrapped tight around my body. I still liked the intimacies we shared, the hands and breaths and shivers so I stuck around. He was good-natured and his sleepy voice made me smile, and the stories about our half made-up pasts made me laugh.

But before I knew it I completely forgot about the strength in his eyes I was fascinated with. I was becoming so restless. Looking at him, a part of me felt as if I had found a secret map and the road was home; but more of me felt like something was missing, or I was missing on something. He was my mixed blessing. There’s a certain beauty about being a mess too…

One night I was standing by the window, watching our reflection. It was then when I realised that he had turned into nothing more than a familiar face, blurred by long nights, second chances and words I can’t remember, like images from an old romantic movie when the actors are already dead.
He told me that he liked my silence.
His voice echoed for a while in my head.
If you could see my fire, maybe I’d like you too, I thought.
Because I was the girl with the open roads now, and I didn’t want to go home.
And the free fall… it was quick, it was nothing. It was something. It was everything.

Miez de noapte si un haos mai simplu, mai fluid


Lucrurile se schimba atunci cand intelegi ca esti liber sa alegi. Nu trebuie sa inghiti tot ce ti se da. Nu trebuie sa asculti romantisme daca nu ai chef sa fii sentimental, nu trebuie sa te duci la filme pline de dulcegarii daca nu vrei sa fii un morman de nemultumiri, neajunsuri si oftari fara pereche, nu trebuie sa citesti o carte care isi dedica intregi capitole descrierilor de decoruri cand te simti prea viu ca sa-ti incapi in piele. Nu trebuie sa iti consolezi prietenii nefericiti cand iesi la o cafea buna in soare, nu trebuie sa dansezi pana in zori cand vrei sa te cuibaresti in pat la un serial sau un iubit, nu trebuie sa lucrezi cand esti prea creativ si nu iti surade gandul de a iti ingropa ideile si a le lasa sa putrezeasca de vii. Nu trebuie sa ii zambesti, nu trebuie sa ii explici sentimente difuze si complicate, nu trebuie sa raspunzi sec doar pentru ca trebuie sa raspunzi. Nu trebuie sa raspunzi.

Credem mereu ca tinem fraiele lumii in maini si ii controlam soarta; ca trebuie sa ii controlam soarta. Adevarul e undeva la mijloc. Funiile nu ne leaga decat pe noi, nu ne controlam decat miscarile si intoarcerile bruste si impulsive si prea rar cuvintele si gandurile reci si taioase. Nu controlam nimic din mersul vietii, nici o alta reactie, nici un alt deznodamant si, cu siguranta, nici un prieten care trebuia sa ne mai fie, inca, prieten. Nimeni nu ne apartine, nimeni nu ne citeste si inca ceva, nimeni nu ne intelege. Si nimeni nu ne cere nimic. Singuri oferim, ne oferim pe tava si nimeni nu vrea, nu ne vrea amintirile, anectodele, anxietatea. Au deja destule. Ei ne vor lumina, noi n-am ajuns inca la ea, dar le spunem ca arata ca luminita de le capatul tunelului si ii rugam sa ne traga afara.

Ne credem plini de dragoste si nu mai stim asupra cui s-o varsam. Intre timp, ne ofilim in lipsa ei. Ne plasam increderea strategic, in portii aproape egale pentru fiecare nou venit pe picior de plecare. Sinele nostru e nesigur si de propria-i existenta. Avem atatea noutati de spus ca nu ne ajunge o viata. Noua ne vorbim tot ca la 13 ani, cand totul era negru opac.

Ne plangem ca suntem praf in vant si nisip printre degete, vin printre imagini motivationale care confirma autenticitatea iubirii si citate care o infirma. Ne plangem ca ne pierdem, ca ne risipim, ca lumea asta n-are nici un Dumnezeu, ca reciprocitatea e un concept abstract si ca nu ne avem decat pe noi, dar e prea tarziu, caci nici atat nu mai avem. Ca avem atata viata care sta pe loc in noi, care nu curge. Si e adevarat, cat timp o credem. Totul e adevarat cand e invelit in hartie colorata si ne hraneste iluzia de dreptate.

Dar lucrurile se schimba atunci cand intelegi ca nu trebuie sa inghiti negativismul, altruismul egoist, nevoia de control si de posesie, reclamele de la televizor si cuvintele pe care ti le sopteste cineva noaptea, ca sa nu te mai vaicaresti in loc sa dormiti. Ca nu iti cere nimeni sa ii dai ce ai mai bun din tine, ba chiar dimpotriva, te roaga din priviri sa nu-i dai atata povara. Ca daca ti-ai canaliza resursele fantastice pe care le lauzi tuturor si le imprastii pe unde-ajungi inspre tine, te-ai recompune ca o noua, magnetica, mult mai buna, varianta a ta. Ca trecutul nu-i atat de definitoriu pe cum crezi, desigur, daca vrei sa crezi. Ca esti liber sa fii, sa ai, sa exprimi, daca nu mai incerci atat de mult sa schimbi, sa dai, sa fortezi.

Anyway, The Answer Is


‘Such a one-sided friendship we’ve got,’ she smiled and took another sip of her drink.
‘So we’re friends now?’
‘We could be.’
She leaned over to him.
‘But first, what do you know about me so far, really?’
He took his time.
She was loud, snazzy, she’d wear black-on beige or gray-on-darker-gray even on lonely, rainy Sundays. She was the wishful, slightly unusual, imaginative type, the kind of girl that leaves her mind and bed unmade and men knowing loss for the rest of their lives. She was like a star exploding in the dark theatre, like young love  consumption.
‘Not much, Mel. You tell me.’
She curved her lips into a gorgeous smile, and he added that to the list.
‘You know, somebody told me once that I can only write about my own feelings. I felt terribly limited. Then they told me that I was an expert at it. An expert, you know? Not an unreliable amateur. I may well be clumsy when it comes to anything else, and that I would be fine with, but I’m willing to work like a slave for my stuff to be out there in the spotlight because I know it’s worth it. I’m telling you, I’m worth it.’
He hadn’t seen anyone like her in a while.
‘How did you become like this?’
‘That’s complicated.’
‘Tell me anyway,’ he said. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Mel, you’re fantastic, but it takes more than charisma to sign you up.’
She laughed again.
‘Oh, but it’s not charisma that I put into my work.’
He ordered another drink.
‘What, are you waiting for your answer now?’
‘I am,’ he said.
‘I won’t give it to you. Tell me one good reason why I should.’
‘Because I need to know who I’m working with.’
‘You have me right here in front of you, boss,’ she laughed.
‘I’m not talking about the pretty face you woke up with this morning, I’m talking about who you really are.’
‘What makes you think I want to put that on the table and hand it to you?’
‘Come on, Mel. I need to know this.’
She lowered her voice  and sounded sexy as hell, he thought.
‘It’s personal, isn’t it?’
‘Up to a point, yes. You help me – I help you, this kind of personal.’
‘Oh, the desperate kind.’
He choked on his food.
‘It’s intimate as hell, but here you go, long story short  and this coming from me, means don’t expect it to be that short.

‘I was invisible; can you believe that? I remembered how I’ve always wanted others to fill my need for drama and beauty, and I found that no one could. People are very bad actors. They never live up to your expectations. I usually left the shows sick to my core of them and everything they couldn’t do for me. But one thing I always knew is that they weren’t guilty. I knew it every night I walked home alone, swearing through gnashed teeth and teary eyes. It took me some time to face I was the guilty one, but when I did I knew I had to change. I had to, you know, learn to have a presence and not be afraid, because people don’t like other people that are afraid. They remind them of their own fears. But I didn’t know how to do it.
‘I read a quote somewhere… I always look for motivation on underrated blogs at 5 a.m. It said that if you truly want to become a writer, then give up on everything else and work on your dream for a year. If you don’t write anything worth reading, then you belong back to where you started. So I did that. I started writing, day and night, until my writing improved and my mind refined. If you think that’s impossible, think twice. When you feel there is something more than you average self inside you, there probably is. How do you get to the fearless, wild, beautiful creature? Ah, I feel like I’m making it too easy for you when no one made if for me. Anyway, the answer is you let go. You forget, even if it was amazing, even if it hurts. You don’t hold on to things. You don’t try and keep them, you don’t talk them through to stay. You let the world move at its own pace and you move at yours. Eventually, there will be some collisions and some of them, you’ll love. But always remember that you will never, ever in your life love anything more than letting yourself shine through the bullshit. And you shouldn’t. You are eternal by nature, the rest  by choice. Let them choose you and if they don’t, stick to who you are. Whenever you think of the person you want to become, whenever you can see it clearly with your mind’s eye, know that you’re actually looking right into your soul. You can bring that out to play if you let it have a voice, and you do that by cancelling your day-by-day self for a while.
Anais Nin cleverly pointed out that, if she hadn’t had feelings, she could have been the most intelligent woman in the world. Now I fully get it.
I used to belong to them, but they couldn’t see me when I was there. Now that I’ve moved on, they see me everywhere.’

She leaned over to him.
‘So make me big, M. Put me out there, because I belong to my dream now, and my dream is bigger than me.’
He grinned. The ice broke under her words. She deserved all that she asked for and more.
‘Mel…’ he mumbled, laughing. ‘Mia, Mel, mia…’ he whispered and gently touched her face.
‘Yes, mine.’
‘But I just told you…’
Mine, Mel, mine as in my new shinning little star. I’m taking you on board, give your all ’cause I’m betting all on you.’
‘Now we’re talking business,’ she smiled. ‘All yours, but remember that nobody edits me.’
‘Nobody should.’

Weeks later

‘I see people’s weaknesses,’ she says.
Her lunch was amazing and he was a great company. She could be honest with him now.
‘How do you see them, Mel?’
‘Loud and clear as day,’ she laughs, staring aimlessly at her food. ‘In fact, loud really is the most suitable word. Weaknesses howl, they reach every cage bar, and even if they’d been silenced for a while they still echo for others to hear them.’
He’s got a lovely smile on his face and nods that she goes on.
‘So I see them in their gestures,’ she smiles. ‘I hear them in their words. I feel them in their thoughts.’
‘Yeah. Those little bits of imagination that form out of you soul and crawl into your mind, then show on everything you do and say and then you pass that vibe to everyone. You know?’
He’s still smiling, but something has changed. His new smile is like a business card, meant to cover a lonely boy’s college long days and sleepless nights with a flower bed violently screaming that there’s the cheapest, most effortless made honey. But she sees people’s weaknesses.
‘I know.’
‘Weren’t you hungry?’
‘Weren’t you?’
She takes her first teaspoon of sorbet with melted chocolate and waits for him to speak. She’s learned to be gentle with him.
‘Can it be that you smell people’s fears because you’re so fully aware of your own that you know exactly how they manifest?’ he asks.
‘Could be.’
He’s got depth, the boy, and she likes proud owners of emotional intelligence; they’re rare and thus very precious.
‘You’re good with people, then,’ he smiles.
‘Perhaps. But that’s not for me to say. It’s… delicate, M.’
‘Oh, please. I’m willing to take it like a man.’
She laughs loudly.
‘It’s always tougher with the ones I start developing feelings for.’
He doesn’t take his eyes off of her.
‘You and me, Mel. You and me…’
He leans over and caresses her hair. To her, it feels like he’s caressing the soul she’s been keeping hostage in the attic, with a few crumbs of dry bread a day so it didn’t come out screaming and ruin the show. But right here, right now, everybody is free.
‘Mia, Mel. Mia…’

Too Many Fragments Come to Me and


I’ve had a crush on your mind since the moment I figured how to walk through your doors, all marked private. I knew we’d get along, we were one and the same. Next to you I could always be both the lady and the tramp.

’Focus outwards,’ you told me while caressing my thighs, and I thought of how much I liked you for your strength, your roughness, and your sadness.

You had gentle manners and were softly spoken and took me out of my mind, showing me the world in vivid shades and colours like I had never seen it before. I inhaled everything with the greed and thirst of someone who had never walked on the bright side of the road before.

You came and went in episodes at times of great loneliness in chilly autumn evenings, when my favourite sweater and its lining of boldness couldn’t keep me warm enough.

You took all the fragility away from me and replaced it with your carefree nature and charming ways and unexpected smiles through good morning text messages, lattes and limos in the square markets of big city centres.

You, you, you.

All my memories are madly beautiful sequences that make me fantasise about how, if we were a book, you’d design the cover and I’d write the story, or if we were an exhibition, you’d take the pictures and I’d write the captions. Images of us keep flashing through my mind. I’ve never this felt loved and safe and my dreams are growing bigger and bigger, like a snowball rolling down a hill, and my time seems shorter and more chaotic after every encounter; day, night, day, night, day, night, August, December, April…



My mind is full of demons and they’re having a party of their own, spoon-feeding me from a safe distance with remnants of misery and suspended terror. I’m on the outside looking in, full of the guilt and the the panic and the anger that came with the disenchantment of realising I must have taken the wrong path, because I ended up like everyone I know. Oh, I must have taken the travelled path and now I can’t fight my demons, because the demons seem to be me. Is this what hell is? Am I the very definition of it?

I’ve always wanted to roll life between my fingers and laugh at its nonsense, but I could never put on that mask of confidence and sophistication I could so clearly see when I closed my eyes. It seemed nothing more than a beautiful illusion, a oasis in the desert I was becoming, the forever intangible truth of my heart. And so, I grew up on the inside like a self-esteem vacuum, writing poetry on my chest’s walls and sketching on my veins’ interiors, hurting at the idea that I will be permanently dissatisfied as I pretend to live, laugh and love on.

Of course, deep beneath lies, half truths and twisted logic there was always this second hand hope pulling me back; but every time I tried to reborn as my favourite self version I made love to margins and sideways and turned out a little darker.

Despite numerous careful thoughts and doodles of the easiest way out the labyrinth, I was still sat in a room inside my head  that I had decorated with exactness (Japanese minimalism, to be exact) to have the best space to think I could have thought of  having a coffee and a friendly debate with my very own version of Cerberus. I sighed, wishing I could invent a kitchen and go bake the first birthday cake for a new me.

Escapism. Escapism. You don’t stop thinking about it, do you? Everywhere you turn there’s walls and chains and does and don’ts – and the whys, hunting and creeping you out. You wish you could escape them and live out of your imagination, reinventing the past and intensifying the present. How are you? You are perfect, aren’t you? As if wide awake in a tomb, with all the magic and the horror of life leaking and dripping out. You’re fine. You’re just not happy, are you?

Episod de dimineata


De la mine până la ea se întindea o legătură, alerga un curent, adia un secret.” – Hermann Hesse

Cuvintele lui se loveau de mine și îmi cădeau la picioare. Nu le mai simțeam. Nu mai erau vii, nu le mai pulsa însemnătate prin vene. Îl auzeam în fundal, așa cum auzi muzica de cameră când citești. Îl vedeam fantomatic, singur și slab, și mă afundam și mai adânc în propria-mi singurătate.

Când nu știam unde să mai fug ca să nu mă mai lovesc de mine, când nu știam cum să mă mai exprim ca să fie suficient, când nu știam unde să arunc tot ce mi-au lăsat și-au fugit, am oprit timpul în loc și m-am oprit locului și eu. Am simțit un calm greoi și dens în jur, un calm care-mi închidea gândurile și-mi cicatriza rănile, care mă îmbrățișa îndeajuns de strâns încât să nu vreau să-mi duc metamorfoza la bun sfârșit.

Nu era nici un sfârșit, era doar o ușă de ieșire lipsită de glorie, în caz de pericol, prin care m-am avântat de prea ori când lumea mi-a ars în plânset, râset și dezorientare. Am supraviețuit atâtor reîncarnări încât nu era nici o mirare că nu mai știam cine sunt. Caut ușa aceea blestemată ori de câte ori trebuie, și-n secret aș vrea să nu mai trec prin atâtea forme noi, dar nu găsesc nimic care să mă țină. Sunt tânără, ma consolez, fac față schimbărilor. Sau așa cred, nici nu mai știu cum sunt.

Dar când să trec încă un prag, când să schimb iarăși etapa, m-am oprit locului și-am tras adânc aer în piept. Undeva, în spate, vorbele lui se îndreptau spre mine cu viteză. Nu știu dacă au trecut prin mine și au ieșit spre noua dimensiune, sau pur și simplu nu m-au mai atins. Câteva au căzut moarte lângă mine, și eu am rânjit fâstâcită, cu fața-n palme. Mi-am adus aminte, ca printre picături, că sentimentele se respectă chiar și după moartea lor. Că părțile bune nu se îngroapă în cele rele. Vocea lui parcă s-a întețit. Apoi m-am cufundat înapoi în liniște.

De la ea, am învățat că a nu trăi cu integritate e cel mai obositor lucru; procesele de conștiință sunt epuizante. Dacă l-aș fi ascultat acum, i-aș fi dat replici în care nu credea decât furia mea. Dacă mi-aș fi dat voie să simt milă pentru el, m-aș fi blamat la nesfârșit pentru ipocrizie și decizii luate în grabă. Și dacă aș fi plecat acum, mi-aș fi făcut morală la nesfârșit. Ea am fost eu.

Afară începuse ploaia, o ploaie rece, primăvăratică, de seară. Eu mă cufundam în lâna moale a singurătății ce m-a cuprins, a calmului aproape de nedescris din încăpere. Până și el își lipise fruntea și palmele de geam și nu mai spunea nimic. M-am întors pe călcâie și, în liniștea cea mai deplină, l-am surprins cu o îmbrățișare.
S-a întors spre mine cu o mină tristă și mi-a spus că aștepta să plec. L-am întrebat de ce nu m-a grăbit și mi-a răspuns că în fapt, vroia să rămân. Mi-am întors atunci capul peste umăr și m-am uitat lung înspre ușa întredeschisă, prin care intrau zgomote de pe scări, din vecini, din altă lume.
– Mi-am adus un bagaj, unul mic, i-am spus. Vreau să rămân o vreme.

Lados Oscuros


Ah, some call it luck, I call it curse. There’s a high price to pay for happiness — an overloaded memory bleeding over and poisoning my entire system with regret.

Everywhere I turn, they tell me to follow my heart, but my heart led me to all the wrong places I have been to and it fell in love with all the wrong things and their shiny, glittering and promising sparks of better. I would always run to them in a desperate, agonized, silent attempt to have reached the end of the rainbow. And then another end would shine brighter and they would tell me, once again, to follow my heart.

Am I nothing else but a sum of brief, blissful moments that can’t be sustained once the party is over? Am I nothing more but what the world gives me on silver platters and I, unable to stop playing lost and found with it, take everything in?

It seems as if it’s all a huge trade— you give your passion and the Universe gives you addiction in return. You sell your soul to the devil the very first time you step into a fun house.



“— Esti o arhiva de amintiri frumoase, iubito,” i-am spus bland, mangaindu-i parul si spinarea. In sinea mea, ma simteam nelinistit. Nu stiam cate amintiri ale altor barbati pastreaza de fapt. Cu cat mai placute, cu atat mai rau, gandeam si ma-ntristam, surazandu-i. Nu vroiam s-o preocup cu nefericirea mea. Era atat de frumoasa. Cu siguranta se-nconjura cu ce-i mai bun… si iarasi ma-ntristam.

Cata teama-n ochii lui! As vrea sa-l inteleg si sa-l alin, dar imi simt sufletul gol si permanent flamand. Sa stau sa-l vindec, sa-i fiu bandaj peste rani trecute — de ce le pastreaza deschise inca? — nu pot. Eu inghit in sec, rad frenetic si sar in vartej. Mi-a spus ca nu vrea sa-i fiu pansament, ca nu sangereaza de alte griji decat de groaza ca m-ar pierde. L-am privit cu drag, incurcata. Daca trebuie sa-l vindec de mine atunci cu atat mai putin am sa-i raman in preajma. Nu vreau sa-l inabus mai tare. L-as lasa sa sangereze pana la moarte, ar reinvia cu o sclipire noua, inteleapta, usor malefica-n ochi. Putina rautate nu i-ar strica, gandesc si ma amuz inchipuindu-mi-l astfel. Prea ma strange, prea ma apasa. Imi lipsesc singuratatea, natura, metropolele; rucsacurile, umbrelele, cate o singura portie de mancare; cartile groase, aventurile, zambetele oferite pe ascuns si primite cu inima deschisa, libera, aerisita. Inspir adanc si-mi trasez urmatorul drum cu privirea. Intre timp, el imi mangaie parul, spinarea si-mi vorbeste despre mine.

65daysofstatic ♫

Chloe bello 1

— Imi placi, imi spune. Imi place cum te rafinezi.

Ma rafinez pe dracu, gandesc si rad. N-am renuntat niciodata la lumini, clape, explozii. Sunt vie, nu ma vezi? Sunt vulcan mocnind pe dinauntru, sunt flama aprinsa din cenusa regenerata, sunt toate zgomotele strazii cand te plimbi, nelinistit, noaptea, si nu stii sa alegi, sunt toate difuzoarele din lume care iti redau viata in vene, sunt fata care se intinde, cuminte, pe zapada si isi aprinde o tigara. Sunt linistea ce te inunda cand iti cufunzi capul in apa, sunt ropotele ploii torentiale izbindu-se de acoperis si caldura ce te inconjoara cand te invelesti grabit cu straturi de iubire data cu portia, faramitata-ntre prea multi, de promisiuni ale unei lumi ce se poate lipsi de tine in orice moment, de escapade la marea care iti ridica prezentul de pe umeri doar pentru a ti-l reda intreg, cu probleme inca intacte, nesarate.

“— Imi placi … Imi place cum te rafinezi.”

Si scrisul meu e acelasi dintotdeauna, haotic si tulbure ca un suvoi de apa ce nu-i lasat sa curga, fierbinte ca lava ce se revarsa din prea mult, prea plin, prea greu. Si eu tot explozie de artificii sunt, si copilul din mine tot le priveste inmarmurit si isi spune ca-i inca noaptea dintre ani… mai are timp de o dorinta, mai are in fata un nou inceput. Sunt tot energie pura, inepuizabila, vise amestecate, rugoase, neterminate; neincepute. Si-n acelasi timp, sunt fata care merge, tacuta, pe plaja, se asaza pe nisip si isi da capul pe spate, sa vada valurile norilor cum se sparg in mare. Imi spune ca m-am rafinat pentru c-am invatat sa tac; dar el nu ma stie decat dupa tacere, si tacerea-i un murmur colectiv.

— Esti sigur ca pe mine ma placi, atunci?
— Da, imi raspunde surazand, senin, sincer.

Iar mie mi-e cu atat mai mila de el, cu cat descopar ca tot ce vede e tacerea, nemiscarea, rafinarea. De mi-ar vedea viata, forta, curiozitatea, dragostea pentru oamenii astia morti, pe care am renuntat de mult sa-i mai improsc cu culori calde, poate l-as placea si eu.



“Ceilalți lupi m-ar sfâșia dacă ar știi că urletul meu e, în realitate, un plânset.”

Nu mă zbat niciodată când ajung în ceasuri moarte, când timpul nu-mi mai trece prin vene, oase și piele, când îmi rămân singur refugiu într-o lume în care țin, încă, ochii larg deschiși. Diminețile-mi încep la întrecere cu soarele, mi se scurg din vise în cearșaf puțin mai albe, mai difuze, mai blânde. Înainte ca lumea să răsară, forțez uși, ferestre și temeri. Între sunete sparte brusc și căderi lungi, mă amestec cu tăceri, cu nopți negre, cu zgomote ale străzii și ale cerului. Îmi place starea asta aproape morbidă de neființă, de prea devreme, de singularitate. Am haos și imaginație în loc de bună dimineața, libertate și pasivitate dizolvate-n sânge, ca celulele roșii și albe, frici nejustificate și liniști teatrale, o doză acceptabilă de sadism și tânjirea după mâini, obraji și inimi calde. Mi-e imposibil să-mi smulg binele din rău, să fug cu mine, de mine, departe — dar dimineața-mi arată secvențe scurte cu iluzii. Sunt cafeaua mea rece de fiecare zi, sunt motivul insomniilor, sunt îndeajunsul alterat, învechit, întristat.

Nimic nu mă despică, nu mă divide mai minuțios decât scrisul. Scrisul îmi cutremură lumea-n timp ce respir prin haina-i groasă, trăgând în mine drogul complicităţii noastre în căutarea mea, redefinirea mea, recreerea mea ca nouă, incitantă, amețitoare. Devin fluidă, vulcanică atunci. Mă străbat fiori calzi, si reci, si calzi, reci și o liniște amețitoare, pregnantă, mai puternică ca orice explozie. La sfârșit, rămân să fiu zimți, rocă și liniște. Rămân contur și peșteră nemărginită, gol frumos, aerisit, gata să fie umplut cu soare. Sanctuarul meu se redeschide lumii-n fiecare dimineață, cu riscul de a se murdări. Pentru câteva clipe, când lumea doarme și eu mă recreez, îmi aleg celulele preferate. Pentru câteva clipe, în dimineți încă obscure, îmbibate cu cuvinte, mă văd așa cum nu știu să fiu.

Eu nu știu să fiu ceva mai bun decât scrisul meu.



— De ce eu? mă-ntreabă și așteaptă să îl rețin, să îl conving.
Mă frământ — nu știu de ce-i inspir fugă, ceață și furtuni. Să fie neliniștea mea de vină? Dar lângă el sunt cuminte ca o reptilă la soare… el îmi încălzește pielea, îmi liniștește sângele.
— Cu tine e bine, îi răspund surâzând, e fericire pe pâine.
— Cu regretele cum rămâne?
Mă întristează neîncrederea lui, o renaște pe a mea. Credeam că-mi vede prin gesturi, că-i place imaginația mea și cine sunt dincolo de fiecare zi prea lungă, prea goală. Mă răsucesc ca într-un sarcofag în care m-a închis de vie, până-mi găsesc răspunsurile.
— Am trecut de ele, îi spun și-i trec o mână prin păr.
Mi-am înfipt unghiile în lemnul mesei deasupra căreia luam cina, în pielea lui mai târziu, în pielea mea la urmă. Îmi trasez conturul spinării lui în podul palmei, cu aceleași unghii ce l-au urmat, fidel, până când nevoia unui mic dejun timpuriu ne-a învins fericirea resimțită. Îl iubeam de atâta timp, încât l-am iubit comprimat în puținul timp ce l-am avut împreună. Cred că i-am dat toată iubirea pe care i-aș fi dat-o după ce, răbdător, mi-ar fi câștigat încrederea în timp îndelungat. Dar eu nu sunt așa. Mie-mi curge încrederea prin vene și mi se revarsă prin piele, prin pielea pe care acum mi-o zgârii cu unghiile, ca să nu plâng.
— Mustrările de conștiință, atunci?
— Nu. Nici de ele nu mai am parte.
Probabil se aștepta să fiu mai blândă, să-l las să mă ierte iar, după ce promisiunile mele îi vor fi părut demne de crezut. “Nu aștept sinceritate” mi-a spus odată, “căci nu cred în ea. Cred în subiectivitate, sentimente și științe — și mai cred în disperarea de a construi minciuni atât de frumoase, încât a le conștientiza mi-ar distruge lumea. Te las să juri și să vorbești repezit, dacă ceea ce ai să-mi spui merită efortul de a pretinde că le cred.”
— Nu mai am regrete față de nimeni, în afară de mine, îi spun și vocea mea sună hotărât, impunător. Regret că nu mă las să trăiesc tot ceea ce îmi doresc. Dependențele se rup de cum veriga cea puternică taie legăturile. Atunci rămân slabă, cu lanțuri grele atârnânde la gât. Experiențele însă sunt ale mele, și freneziile lor îmi aparțin cu totul. De ele sunt dependentă cu plăcere, și de nimeni și nimic în rest.
M-a privit ca și cum m-ar mai vrea o data. Dar eu nu mai am răbdare pentru trecut. Pentru trecutul ăla mort, care nu mai moare în mine. Trecutul ăla solid, pietrificat între oasele și celulele mele. Pe mine m-au fulgerat alte ganduri — cum că ochii care nu se văd se uită, iubirea pe care nu o dai se pierde. “Nu știu dacă te pot iubi de două ori”, mi-a mai spus atunci. M-am întrebat dacă eu, mai departe de șablonul din mintea mea, mă pot reîndrăgosti de el. Tot ce-am văzut a fost un chip blurat de nopți lungi, șanse noi și bruiaje, precum în filmele de dragoste transmise prost.

Esente tari


Mainile imi tremura fara incetare cand scriu. Nu-ndraznesc sa arunc un ochi peste text.
Stiu ca e prost. Lipsit de coerenta, de consistenta. Scriu ca sa-mi recapat increderea, scriu si ma rusinez.

El imi cere sa ma definesc, eu nu-i pot raspunde de hohote de ras.

Recitesc repede si continui; stiu ca daca ma opresc, am sa izbucnesc intr-un planset prelung pe care numai el mi-l poate opri.

In timp ce rad, ma gandesc ce sa raspund de data asta. Ma intristez teribil. Rasul meu e prelungire, e groaza. Daca n-as rade m-as intreba si eu acelasi lucru.

Afara tuna si fulgera, dar el ma incalzeste cu cafea calda si mangaieri. Lumea n-are decat sa arda, sa se inunde. Lumea mea amorteste usor sub atingerile lui.

— Te poti deghiza si in ceva accesibil inamicului? ma intreaba surazand.
Mie imi ingheata sangele-n vene si ma retrag. Imi cunoaste orice joc. Greselile mele ii sunt dragi, nervozitatea mea il linisteste. Nu exista un alt loc in care as vrea sa-mi arat adevarata piele, in care as vrea sa-mi scurg forta, in care as vrea sa-mi ascund slabiciunile. El isi lipeste, atunci, fruntea de a mea.
— Sau va trebui sa trisez?

Cand armurile se sparg, ma incolacesc in jurul lui fara sa ma tem ca-mi vede pielea impregnata cu rugina, urmele lasate de apasarea metalului. Langa el nu mai sunt intangibila. Sunt esenta picuranda prin fiecare por, prin fiecare invelis.

Radem amandoi, el cu mai multa tragere de inima decat mine, insa imi dau seama curand ca nu ma mai tem de el. Ca-mi place apropierea lui. Ca ma simt usoara, ca pielea mea respira, ca sunt fericire, fericire impartastita. Ma protejez de pace.

Scriu frenetic si simt spasme in tot corpul, imi musc buzele pana la sange si-mi zgarii degetele rand pe rand, in incercarea de-a ramane treaza. Cum sa-i uit privirea, vorbele, indepartarea?

— Mel, inamicul nu sunt eu, esti tu.

Cedez; plang si dracui abordarea tacticoasa, cu prea convenabila compasiune pentru mine insami si inchipuita neputinta, nu ma mai las amortita. Vreau sa fiu vie, vie ca el; vreau viata curgandu-mi prin vene, suflet razbind prin carne.

Vad cum ma paraseste, desi-mi tine inca pumnii stransi intr-ai lui.
— Ma vrei ca sa ma lupt cu tine, in timp ce tu tii inca falcile inclestate.
— Fato, tu nu stii sa traiesti. Esti secatuita de vlaga, si o absorbi de unde apuci; in cantitati prea mici, in cantitati prea mari…
— Sunt obosit, Mel. Sunt obosit. De la mine, nu mai ai ce lua…

Liniste. Iubesc senzatia fierbinte, alunecanda pe pielea mea. Cand opresc apa si ultimele picaturi mi se scurg de pe coapse, incep din nou sa tremur. Incerc sa-mi conving corpul ca nu e frig. Ma crede, insa nu se linisteste. Foarte bine, imi spun, peste o luna poate ca voi tanji dupa putina emotie.
Ma imbrac si ma reped spre telefon. Cand imi raspunde, fac un efort si vorbesc rar, cat sa nu-mi simta tremurul din voce. Stiu ca sun scurt, bruiat si neclar, insa imi mentin, cumva, calmul.
— Mel, imi raspunde dupa un timp.
Inima-mi bate cu putere, insa il simt incurcat. Stiu de pe acum ca ma astept la un discurs sacadat, insa nu-mi pasa. Mi-e drag omul asta, am sa-mi plec capul si-am sa ascult oricat va fi nevoie.
— Vrei sa luam cina?
Sunt inmarmurita.
Accept cu glasul intretaiat si lipsita de apararea ingamfarii sa ma intalnesc cu el o ora mai tarziu.


tumblr_n6dawgSQ541qihb01o1_1280 (1)

When I realised how much I loved his weaknesses,
or better said, how much I loved him despite his weaknesses
– even better, how much I loved him because of his weaknesses,

I learned the three most important things for the rest of my life:
strength imposes respect
and vulnerability grows love;

if God had a face,
it would be the connection that we have.



Încă îmi încleştez pumnii în după-amiezile târzii când îmi curge singurătate din suflet, dar se amestecă, la nivelul inimii, cu multă, multă iubire pentru viaţa ce mi-a intrat în sânge. Îi sunt teribil de recunoscătoare că a măturat rămăşiţele mele de oriunde am încercat să mă las să cad cand uitam că îmi pot canaliza energia oriunde, că e doar o problemă de alegere, dar pentru alte drumuri şi posibilităţi nu aveam sentimente şi nici nu eram dispusă să încep să dezvolt. Mă vindec încet, însă ea grăbeşte procesul. M-a dus mai departe şi mi-a curăţat rănile, m-a recompus cu particule noi şi m-a ridicat în picioare sau m-a târât după ea; oricum, m-a iubit mai mult decât mine. M-a îndepărtat de toate adăposturile, nu m-a lăsat să mă opresc niciodată şi uită-te la mine acum — am învăţat să merg o dată cu ea.

Departe de a mai tânji după o mână caldă pe care s-o pot strânge într-ale mele, preluându-i tremurul, schimbându-l cu al meu, mă simt acum cu toate riscurile asumate, cu centura de siguranță gata să fie dată la o parte, cu multă inconștiență și fiori de plăcere și curiozitate și nou. Dacă aș putea fi altceva, aș fi un clopot ce-ar suna în mințile oamenilor, un afiș, o reclamă bună, un manifest, un protest. Începe să-mi curgă vindecarea în venele subțiate, fragile. La dracu cu menajamentele, cu zâmbetele ținute lung, cu atingerile fine. Îmi pompează un suflu nou, răscolitor în tot corpul ăsta vechi, prea vechi, care a uitat să se regenereze. Îmi pune sângele-n mișcare nouă-n ritm turbat, mă spală de mizerie și reziduri și păcate comise împotriva mea — lipsă de bunătate, toleranță, încredere.

Mișcă-mă. Du-mă să văd locuri, fugi cu mine de cine risc să devin. Zâmbește, vreau să te iau de mână. Aștept cu nerăbdare să îți fiu aproape. Te izbești de pereții mei prost construiți, ca pentru a fi dărâmați, și îmi cureți interiorul până la os, până la mine. Lângă tine, mă descătușez. Nu mai rămâne nimic. Gol. Vid. Tu. Și eu.

Știu că înțelegi tot ce scriu. Știu că mă citești printre rânduri, că îmi vezi mișcările rapide, îndrăznețe — îmblânzite. Așa că mișcă-mă, tu și nimeni altcineva. Ești cald și viu, un vulcan de bucurie potolită, dătătoare de cele mai frumoase sentimente pe care le-am cunoscut — aproape că-mi pot imagina ce-ți face ție. Iar lava se întoarce singură la tine. Ești plin de liniște și încântare, eu rămân tânjind și plină de curiozitate. Mișcă-mă. Dacă îmi răcești sufletul, am să te pierd în urma mea.

About Mel

USA Roadtrip 2 -1

“The best way to get over a woman is to turn her into literature.” — Henry Miller.

I write to get over myself.

Once again I ran through all the How should I start?s, Should I start?s, Can I even start? but I lost it all to remembering what brought me where I am. When confidence loses meaning and others can not comfort me, I choose to write.
I write about the girl I will never be, the girl I almost am; and who knows? Maybe I’ll get closer this way. Maybe I’ll change my mind about who I can and can’t be by the time I finish; if I ever do.

Her name is Mel. She was born out of chaos and imagination, things that I couldn’t just let the whole world see. Fear might the universal psychological explanation for all the things we choose not to live, but this time it wasn’t just that. It was much beyond fear. It was putting things into a better shape. Here’s to Mel, the outcome, and ash, of my inner flames.

Mel was born when I was seventeen, when I started reshaping the soft leather I thought I was made of. People told me I was going to be shy, but luckily I craved sunrises, lightning echoes, fast cars. I wanted to expand and catch new fire, let vitality flows pump in my veins removing my every fright, refreshing my heart and renewing me wholly, making me fierce and strong and me, the me they told me I would never be. But instead of smooth, well-mannered, quiet like predicted, through writing I found a life force and a wild drive that spice my world up to the ninth cloud every time.

I thought I created somebody in my writings, a human being out of paper and vivid imagination  and then I slipped into her skin. I thought that I created Mel to hurt myself, to run my fingers through her soul and see what’s it like being inside a beautiful mind that I will never fully own, because I am young and curious and unrefined. I used to think I created her to contrast and shame me at my worst, as if one could ever create and understand a character they couldn’t one day be.

Creating Mel released me into wilderness. I had had enough of old stories, of stillness. Mel had to be the untamed me, the harsh, pure essence of a truth I too could barely see, but would feel in my bones every second of every day. To remove her wrappings, to have her living loud and free, to see her fears despite the refusals to make them count was what I yearned for. To see how life circulates up her spine, to feel her emotions unaltered by circumstances, chances and morals. To witness her resurrection, to feel her spasms, to live her release, to set myself free. To see my passion, the one I keep hidden in dark areas, the one I question about when the Can I even start?s show up. At the end of it all, to know who is the girl behind the image, who is the beast behind the girl.

Mel is now the healer, the map maker. If most of my stories used to be about her being the weak link, they’ve gradually turned her into the strong one. I know that I am a chain of personas, just as weak as the weakest link but sometimes just as strong as Mel. I am now essence dripping from every pore, soul shining through my flesh and bones. I found escapism, inner freedom and an immense beauty by giving them to her, and I know how to find them again, and again and again.

I’m not writing to heal anymore. I’m doing it for all the right reasons. I write because it’s the only real voice I’ve found to have so far. The others are often silenced by the mundane, the worried, the loud and the obnoxious, the in-the-way, the not-now, the if-only. Writing is, in the end, a strictly egoistic, desperate and infantile impulse to play on the outside, to be allowed to recreate, to rethink. It has a liberating promise in which I plunge, and it resonates to me like no other. Writing, even when edited, is raw when life is too often fine-tuned, and it’s all in the rawness for me; and I feel so easy in my skin writing about Mel.

Far from longing for a warm hand whose shivers I can interchange with mine, for a comforting united-we-stand in a side of life defined by darkness and expired cookies, I now look over my shoulder with sympathy to the girl who once believed in a shyness-bounded destiny. Instead of apathy, codependence and being in denial, in march against life, I run not from fire but towards it with every piece of work I put it in. By putting Mel on top I was given a new sense of self.

It’s beautiful because it’s unexpected, it’s beautiful because I didn’t force it. I didn’t realise she was becoming strong. I didn’t realise I was becoming strong.

Mel is my free flow.

Despre frica


Laitmotiv al scrierilor mele de timp incoace, frica a pus acaparare pe mine vreme indelungata. M-am recitit astazi. Nu am stiut ca aceleasi cuvinte se repeta obsesiv si turbat; ca si cum mi-ar respira prin piele si mi-ar imbatrani-o mai devreme ca orice tigara. Imi pare ca am citit insemnarile unui nebun, in ceea ce le priveste structura. Nu am schimbat niciodata abordarea, insa fiecare text se incheie cu finalul fericit ca solutie unanima doar ca sa isi reia nesigurantele in urmatoarea.

Ma intreb daca arta, pe langa a ne vindeca de viata, nu ne si lipseste de ea. Daca ne cufundam in promisiunea ei liberatoare cu ochii strans inchisi, cu urechile astupate, incapabili sa vorbim, sa respiram, sa ne eliberam. Daca nu ne devine in loc scorbura, tunel, nevoie de securitate satisfacuta. Pe intuneric si in singuratate, ne invelim cu ea pana uitam cine suntem si de ce o facem. Atunci se desavarseste transformarea si arta preia rolul nostru; functiile vitale si constiinta. Cu cat mai salbatice scrierile, cu atat mai intensa dorinta de ele. Tanjirea dupa. Lipsa lor. Asta e imbratisarea dorintei impetuoase de a crea — un impuls strict egoist, disperat, pueril de a fi trasi afara, de a fi lasati sa recreem, sa regandim. Cand ordinea isi pierde logica si respectul isi pierde sensul, aleg sa scriu despre frica. Si sfarsitul fericit e felul meu de a imbratisa creatia inapoi, inainte de-a aluneca iar, tacut, treaz, resemnat, visator. Gata sa-mi reiau nesigurantele. Voi implora mereu dupa mai mult timp in care sa raman sedata sub acoperirea scrisului.

Singuratati impreunate, zgomote ale strazii si ale cerului


— Am crescut prin baruri, imi spune zambind si isi mai trece o data mana prin par.
Nu-mi place privirea ei, nu e fericita.
Imi vine sa-i spun ca barurile au facut o treaba buna cu ea, e energica si puternica, si peste masura de frumoasa. Dar stiu ca n-ar fi o idee buna, nici ea nu o crede si, de altfel, nici eu nu accept ca barurile pot constitui un mediu bun. Incerc sa-mi mentin tonul sobru, dar remarc in mine un impuls aproape parintesc de a o proteja. De baruri, de ea insasi, de trecutul ce-i face ochii sa sclipeasca de neliniste.
— De la ce varsta fumezi? o intreb si ii scot o tigara din pachet, insa stau pe ganduri inainte de a mi-o aprinde.
Imi dau seama ca sunt un ipocrit in cele din urma. O critic pentru ca fumeaza, pentru ca e lipsita de maniere, pentru ca a crescut in locuri pe care eu am inceput sa le frecventez de cum am crescut suficient cat sa aflu despre ele. Si am o tigara intre degete. Nu sunt cu nimic mai bun decat ea si totusi imi permit sa fac pe lupul moralizator. Ma tin tare, dar in sinea mea, ma rusinez teribil. Ea e nedumerita, ca si cum nu intelege unde a gresit, insa cedeaza repede. Nu mai suntem intr-un bar, iar ea nu se mai simte in siguranta. Noua casa nu e inca acasa.
— De mica, imi raspunde fara sa clipeasca, sfidator.

Incepe sa ploua si sa se intunece. Ii spun ca va trebui sa plec in curand, ea isi ridica privirea intrebatoare spre mine. Astept, cu rasuflarea taiata, sa aud ceva care sa ma opreasca, insa nu se sinchiseste. Nu ma surprinde, e obisnuita cu singuratatea. Oamenii sunt alergici la liniste si pace, ei ii ajung miscarile proprii, pungile de paine pe care le fosneste in bucatarie, perdeaua dusului pe care o trage inainte de culcare. Are o relatie de invidiat cu ea insasi. Cand, dupa primul tunet, nu isi aduna bratele in jurul corpului, ghemuindu-se, imi castiga intreg respectul.

— As mai putea ramane, ii spun. Ploua.
Cat de penibil sunt, gandesc. Chipul ii tradeaza confirmarea. Ma simt prost, si in acelasi timp, o apreciez inzecit. E tanara, ma intreb cati ani are, cu siguranta nu mai multi de 20, 23. Imi plac trasaturile ei, barurile i-au masculinizat gandirea si purtarile, insa i-au pastrat o finete aparte a aspectului fizic. Nu stiu cum reusesc sa ajung cu palma deschisa pe obrazul ei, mangaindu-i pielea catifelata. Al doilea tunet o face sa tresara si sa se ghemuiasca in bratele mele. Un gest putin fortat, ce-i drept, caci sunt sigur ca n-a fost tunetul cauza.
— Nu vreau sa-ti vorbesc despre mine, imi sopteste.
Analizez situatia cu rapiditate, insa fara luciditate. Sunt aici ca sa lucram impreuna, iar ea tocmai mi-a refuzat povestea. Dar e superba, si mi-e lipita de piept.
— Nu te fortez, insa mi-ar fi placut sa mi te conturezi.
— Contureaza-ma tu, ma provoaca. Asa cum iti place, dar nu te indeparta prea mult. Nu incerca sa ma afli, sa ma schimbi. Creeaza-ma mai departe.
Imi trage mana mai jos, inspre umerii ei, iar eu ii cuprind spatele cu totul. Realizez ca nu putem lucra impreuna. De altfel, la o privire mai atenta, fata asta nu trebuie descoperita publicului. Unele tablouri nu sunt create ca sa fie expuse, ci doar ca sa exprime. Eu vreau sa-i pastrez esenta. O strang in brate si in acelasi timp ma intind dupa bricheta, apoi impartim o tigara in tacere, singuratati impreunate, zgomote ale strazii si ale cerului.



Mă privește de ceva vreme și trebuie să admit că-i sunt recunoscătoare atenției mele distributive pentru libertatea de gândire pe care mi-o acordă uneori. Probabil că-i îngrozit, așa că-mi aprind o țigară și încerc să fac câteva glume pe seama celor spuse. Nu mă crede, desigur că nu mă crede.

— Ce ţi-a făcut?
— Nu mi-a făcut nimic, îi răspund prompt şi îmi vâr o mână în buzunar.
Şi m-am ţinut tare…
— Atunci ce cauţi aici cu mine?
Ce să îi spun? Că frigul mi-a intrat în oase, în sângele care nu mai fierbea de dorinţa de a căuta soluţii şi, încet, în suflet? Că aveam nevoie de căldură, şi-am ştiut că numai în apropierea lui are să mi se transmită? Dar nu reuşeam s-o primesc…
— Am venit să pierd vremea.
Nu-mi mai vedeam decât exteriorul; exteriorul și zâmbetul… eșuam mizerabil. N-am fost nici o clipă impresionată de noua mea dezinvoltură, doar dezgustată de lipsa de profunzime, superficialitate îndelung temută ce-a pus acaparare pe porțiuni de suflet; ca o crustă peste o rană prea adâncă, ce nu se mai închide, un înveliș subțire de liniște mă ferea acum de cutremure.

Ce să îi spun? Că mă afundam în lume cu rapiditate și inconștiență, că mă pierdeam în mulțimi, că mă atingeam de necunoscuți în fuga mea spre mereu alții, în dorința de-a mă alipi, în teama de-a o mai face o dată? Că acasă, apa fierbinte îmi strângea simțurile și mi le spăla, însă prin mine curgea murdăria de afarî, murdăria de care nu mai îndrăzneam să mă curăț? Ceilalți nu reușesc să vindece mult. Te pătează cu nefericirea lor, care-ți intră-n sânge și se amestecă cu a ta.
Așa că mă apropii, ascult, creez punți de legătură, îmi transfer deznădejdea altora, însă mă încarc prea puțin. La sfârșitul zilei sunt sleită de puteri, ipocrită, suflet mai pustiu decât ieri și mai plin decât mâine. Mi-aș descrie gândurile, însă prefer să le îngheț pentru încă puțin. Adorm fără vise, mă transform într-o jucârie a propriei mele lipse de consistență, devin fluidă, mă scurg din mine și mă risipesc, lăsându-mă goală și simplă… complicatiile au ajuns să-mi provoace greață.
Să îi spun toate astea? Există cineva căruia merită să îi vorbesc astfel?

— Ai venit să îmi pierzi vremea atunci, ai spus prompt. Pe a ta, ți-ai pierdut-o deja. E păcat că ai investit momentele frumoase în cele urâte.
— Nu înțeleg.
— Iubito, cele mai frumoase clipe din viaţa ta s-au dus pe emoţii urâte, îmi spune și-mi aşază şuviţele de păr deranjate de vânt după ureche. Continui să crezi că furia e cel mai puternic drog pentru a nu te plafona şi o foloseşti pe post de combustibil. Îţi dă energie şi avânt pentru a nu-ţi pierde pofta de viaţă şi ai început să uiţi de liniştea sufletului tău. Te scoate din mizeria cotidianului şi te face eroină în lumea ta proprie, cea în care te lupţi cu morile de vânt şi tipii agăţaţi în baruri ca să fii fericită. Ţi-e frică să stai singură cu tine pentru că nu vei mai avea nici un motiv să fii furioasă— şi atunci, ce ai să te faci?
M-am cutremurat.

— După cum vezi, mi-a spus apropiindu-se și mai tare de mine, ți-ai căzut în cursă. Furia te-a sedat şi ignoranţa începe, uşor, să se instaleze în locul ei. E ultimul stadiu al cancerului minţii tale. Devii imună, frumoaso. Imună la viaţă. Şi cât erai de vie…
— Am venit să… vorbim, am spus mecanic, sacadat.
— Așa e mai bine, spune surâzând. Vreau să te fac să vorbeşti. Ai multe de spus.
Am schiţat un zâmbet neconvingător și am tras adânc aer în piept.
— Dar nu vreau lucruri concrete, nu-mi vorbi despre cineva care te-a rănit, cineva care te iubeşte, cineva care te învârte pe degete – mi-ai luat cana şi ai dat pe gât toată cafeaua rămasă — puţin îmi pasă. Toţi avem acelaşi registru de poveşti. Vorbeşte-mi despre ce ai învăţat, asta-mi va forma o idee despre tine.

Parcă viața nu m-ar fi învățat nimic. Nu mă simt cu nimic peste o copilă încă naivă, deși par gata să sfidez orice, chiar şi dreptatea, doar ca să demonstrez că nu fac nici cel mai mic compromis în defavoarea capriciilor mele.
— Persoanele frumoase rămân în mintea şi-n inima mea, dar nu le mai pot regăsi în ele însele, e tot ce reușesc să articulez.
Sunt transparentă.
— Ți-a făcut ceva din nou…
Înghit în sec și-l las să mă certe, dacă vrea. Oamenii îmi fac, mereu, câte ceva. Sau nu-mi fac nimic, ceea ce e și mai greu de digerat.
— Lasă-mă să te învăț ceva, îmi spune și-mi ia mâna într-a lui.
Îmi vine să bat în retragere, însă mă forțez să rămân alături de el. Îmi mângâie fața și știu că-mi pierd controlul, stăpânirea de sine; însă nu mi-e frică de el.

— Mel, tu oscilezi între extreme. Asta te face, într-adevăr, oricum mai puțin lipsită de viață, îmi spune. Însă fie te pierzi în mâini și suflete străine, fie te irosești în favoarea ușurinței de-a trăi prost. Și oricine poate trăi prost. Nici nu se mai numește trai, se numește supraviețuire prin șocuri.
Îmi plec capul, iar el mi-l ridică imediat.
— Te privesc și văd în tine cel mai frumos cadou pe care l-ar putea primi cineva. Dar ești deja împachetată, gata de livrare. Devii extravagantă, ostentativă, nedorită. Mă faci să mă întreb dacă ești, într-adevăr, valoroasă, din moment ce renunți atât de ușor la tine. Te văd. Te-ai risipi în drum, ca pentru a scăpa de o povară.
Încerc să-i țin privirea și să-i mulțumesc, dar mi-o las repede în pământ.
— Nu vreau să-ți știu transformarea. E personală și așa trebuie să rămână.
Aprob tăcut.
— Mel, te-ar durea coloana vertebrală pe care cred c-o mai ai, de ai merge împovărată dintr-o parte în alta a vieţii cărând cadavre. Şi-n plus, ai încetini…
Dragul, e gata să-mi vorbească acum.
— Dacă inima mi-e plină cu lucruri nefolositoare, tu unde ai să mai încapi? Toate murdăriile zilelor care se metamorfozează în amintiri de nepreţuit îmi pietrifică inima și-mi înlăcrimează ochii. Aşa c-am decis să-mi menţin sufletul liber și mintea curată.
Altfel, oamenii îmi circulă prin corp ca pe străduţe întortocheate, mă forţează să-i cunosc, să-i iubesc şi să-i accept, intră cu forţa în sufletul meu și mi-l murdăresc cu prezenţele lor triste, ce tânjesc după compasiune… şi uite aşa empatizez, mă molipsesc…
Lumea lor e aglomerată şi îmbâcsită de toate nimicurile pe care le păstrează din teama de a le uita; atmosfera ei îmi circulă prin vene de câte ori mă opresc, o simt ca pe un sânge călduţ şi murdar care dacă se încheagă, mă omoară. Mă-nvârt fără să-mi găsesc locul şi încerc să-l iubesc din toată inima până mi-o iau în dinţi ca să plec – ce altceva să fac? Dacă încep să urăsc, îmi pun capăt zilelor singur… Așa că plec mai departe curat și fără bagaje grele.
Ce mi-au făcut mie? Nimic. Însă nu vreau ruine, blocuri de piatră reci, pale de vânt și stropi de ploaie. Confortul lor îmi atrofiază mușchii, mă golește de voință, mă ține pe loc. Îmi rămân singur refugiu, însă nu mai sunt de mult acasă, căci nu mai am loc acolo. În tine trebuie să fie mereu un gol – pentru lumină, pentru oameni noi, pentru oameni mai buni, pentru tine. Niciodată să nu te încarci până la refuz cu sentimente.
Mel, eu refuz să cosmetizez cine-ţi par a fi. Cât să disimulez?

Mi-am strâns degetele în pumn cu putere, până ce mi-am zgâriat podul palmei cu unghiile lungi. Dumnezeule, nu-l cunoșteam.
— Greşeala ta a fost că ai aşteptat. Ai aşteptat să merite, ca şi cum valoarea dorinţelor tale ar creşte sau ar scădea în timp. Că ai aşteptat siguranţa — care apropo, n-a venit aşa cum nici n-o să vină — şi ai vrut momente potrivite, că ai crezut că eşti singură pe drum până te-a înghiţit norul de praf. Toţi ceilalţi se grăbeau şi te-au întrecut, acum chiar ai rămas singură… să le ia naiba de momente potrivite, nu te plictiseşti în aşteptarea

Îl urmăream cu privirea, aspirându-i vivacitatea. Îi iubeam spontaneitatea, căci, odată cu a lui, mi-o scotea şi pe a mea la iveală.
— Eşti frumoasă şi sănătoasă şi lipsită de viaţă, de expresivitate, de voie bună. Eşti o epavă, să ştii, îi mai spuse înainte să se întoarcă cu spatele la ea. Te iubesc, dar eşti un morman de negativism. Mă îmbolnăveşti cu lenea de a trăi şi nici în ruptul capului n-am să renunţ la acţiune, mişcare, intensitate, încredere în schimbul mai multor zile şi nopţi călduţe lângă tine.
Călduţe, călduţe, dar tu emani răceala prin toţi porii…
M-am agăţăt de gâtul lui în clipa următoare, și am izbucnit în plâns.
El nu m-a atins, doar mi-a urmărit mişcările cu ochi mijiţi şi un zâmbet abia schiţat.
— Mel, nu-ți mai lăsa sufletul să fie trist. Ieşi la soare şi râzi şi păstrează-n mintea şi-n inima ta persoanele frumoase, dar nu le mai căuta niciodată în ceilalţi. Lasă-i să se schimbe şi schimbă-te şi tu. Să nu ajungi să simţi vina nimănui, nici măcar a ta mai mult decât trebuie. Dacă trecutul te trage în jos, atunci schimbă-l cu unul în care să ai încredere, pe care să te sprijini. Un alt punct de vedere.
De data asta mă îmbrățișă el.

Ascultasem destul şi începusem să surâd. Dedramatizam treptat tot ce-mi păruse până atunci complicat. Vorbele lui erau chiar crezul meu, pe care-l auzeam acum pentru prima oară dintr-o gură străină. Punându-mi-l pe tapet în întregimea şi frumuseţea lui, a surclasat răutăţi superficiale – era partea ascunsă din mine şi de mine, dar am recunoscut-o de îndată ce am început să ascult ca fiind a mea, atât de a mea. Vocea aceea blândă mă despica pentru a mă lăsa să ies la iveală – şi eram uimită. Crezul meu era frumos, aşa era şi sufletul meu aşadar.

— Nu ai nevoie de cineva care să-ţi lingă rănile, mi-a răsunat ca un tunet în ambele urechi şi mi-a tras colţul buzelor spre ele.
Am dat, tăcută, din cap. Ştia ce-mi trece prin minte. Cred că vulnerabilitatea mă transformase într-o carte deschisă pentru oricine, iar printre rânduri scria, cu litere mari, că nu vreau să fiu citită.
— Nu fă comparaţii. Ceva ce ai încărcat cu sentimente va înclina întotdeauna balanţa în favoarea sa. Aşa că lasă lucrurile noi să ţi se arate şi învaţă să le iubeşti înainte de a le judeca, raporta la cele vechi. Pune-ți tot sufletul în ceea ce faci şi nu uita să-l chemi înapoi la tine când ai terminat. Viaţa e cel mai bun lucru pe care-l vei avea vreodată. Nu o da cadou nimănui. Nimeni nu are nevoie de ea.
Un sentiment cald m-a învăluit pe dată şi rând pe rând, neînţelegeri multe au dispărut din mintea mea înceţoşată.
Explicaţiile curgeau, curgeau din sufletul lui în al meu fără a le menţiona măcar…
— Să nu urăşti nimic, a continuat, decât răutatea gratuită şi, la fel, bunătatea gratuită — ambele ascund frustrări. Oamenii frustraţi sunt singurii periculoşi.
Iar eu mi-am muşcat buza şi am tras aer adânc în piept. Un fior rece, apoi unul cald, şi din nou unul rece, şi mi-am strâns mâinile în jurul meu, ghemuindu-mă pe scaun.
Mâna lui se strecură în spatele meu îmbrăţişându-mă cald, strâns, cu pătură cu tot.

— În final, să nu-ţi mai doreşti nimic din tot ce ai avut. Dar să nu uiţi că există o linie fină între curiozitate și superficialitate.
Degetele lui se strecurau printre degetele mele, în timp ce zâmbetul mi se întindea dintr-o parte a chipului până în cealaltă, prelingându-mi-se până în inimă.
— Să înveţi să trăieşti frumos, mi-ai spus. Să râzi, să te bucuri de ceea ce ţi se întâmplă, şi tot ce-ţi propui, să reuşeşti. Să înveți că viaţa îţi ia lucrurile bune doar pentru a îţi da lucruri şi mai bune. Dacă nu înţelegi asta, atunci încă nu ai învăţat nimic.
Şi dacă nu primeşti nimic mai bun în cele din urmă, atunci eşti propriul tău cadou din partea vieţii.
După o vreme vei simţi importanţa reală a fiecărui lucru. Şi vei iubi mai mult decât îţi vei dori să ai.
Atunci vei ştii că nu există nimic mai bun decât un om fericit.

Am pufnit amândoi în râs atunci. Drace, cât mi-e de ciudă că nu te-am cunoscut mai devreme. Eliberezi toată urâţenia din mine şi mă revigorezi prin fiecare comentariu ironic, fiecare remarcă anticipată, fiecare propunere neaşteptată. Îmi place noutatea ta, îmi place placiditatea ta, îmi place cine eşti şi cine mă faci să fiu, mai bine spus— mă laşi să fiu.
Sunt legată de tine printr-o libertate totală care mă linişteşte întotdeauna.
Ai reușit să mă scoţi la suprafaţă pe mine. Cea mai bună parte din mine, chiar— încrederea. În lume, în mine şi, încet dar sigur, în tine.

Zimti, roca si liniste


Vreau sa vad mai departe de taceri; te iubesc pentru ele, insa e timpul sa imprastii ceata densa din jurul tau.

Linistea ta e linistea mea, si nicaieri nu ma simt mai acasa decat sub umbrela calmului tau. Insa stiu bine ca seninatatea e adesea numai o minciuna, o folie protectoare pentru furtuna, iar eu m-am razgandit in privinta vremii preferate — vreau sa iti vad furtuna.

Vreau sa te vad pe tine, viata nedizolvata in lume, agresivitate si impulsuri nereprimate. Nu imi mai da imbinari reusite, vreau adevarul zgrunturos, identitatea nestrecurata prin filtre ce-i inlatura spuma, esenta pura, tare. M-am indragostit de caldura ta, de blandetea ta si de inima ta frumoasa; insa acum vreau sa-ti vad ambalajul rupt, raceala, forta. Cat de departe poti merge? Vreau sa merg cu tine. La capatul puterilor tale am sa stiu cine e omul din spatele imaginii, cine e bestia din spatele omului.

Vreau sa te vad cum tremuri. Cum te strabate viata si iti scutura sira spinarii, cum te curentezi cu emotie nealterata de conjuncturi si morala; vreau sa fiu martora la invierea ta, vreau sa-ti simt spasmele, sa-ti traiesc eliberarea. Vreau sa-ti vad pasiunea, cea pe care o pastrezi ascunsa in zonele intunecate, colturoase ale firii tale cuminti.
Vreau sa vad cine esti, sa vad cine poti fi.

Totusi mi-e teama de caderile tale; imi pare ca firea ta conformista n-ar stii sa cada in picioare. Cu ale mele m-am obisnuit din vreme. Eu n-am fost tacuta, asadar n-am stiut niciodata sa m-apropii de mine; galagioasa, impertienenta si violenta mi-ar descrie perfect relatia cu sinele chinuit, negat, dat la o parte pentru a trece mai departe de mine. Se prea poate sa nu-mi fi acordat suficient timp sa ma ascult, oricum, am cazut de prea multe ori cat sa nu ma fi slefuit pentru asta. Pe tine, mi-e teama sa te duc acolo.

Cand te-am cunoscut, m-ai prins de mana si m-ai oprit; m-ai tras afara din furtuna, m-ai dus inauntru. Mi-ai inchis pleoapele si m-ai sarutat, am ajuns unde n-am mai fost si unde numai tu ai reusit sa patrunzi — in centrul cel mai adanc al fiintei mele, unde amintirile nu aveau valoare si aerul rarefiat continea particule de pace. Acolo, m-ai invatat sa-mi iau pauze, sa ma imbratisez, sa-mi ascult inima. M-ai invatat sa simt, sa simt fara cuvinte si miscari bruste, fara explicatii si argumente. Dar eu? Eu te pot invata sa traiesti?



S-a terminat cu condiția de exponat, sub care stă scris cine ești și de ce, cu fuga de trecut și prezent împovărant, cu teama de-a reveni unde nu îți mai e locul. Cu devalorizarea conștientă ca țintă, asumată cu seninătate și nerăbdare, uiți definiția ce ți-au acordat-o, consistența și frânghiile în ritm nebun. Inspiri adânc și te îmbrățișezi cu aerul tare, cu toată răcoarea bine meritată după căldura sufocantă din mijlocul lor. Ai frigul și singurătatea de partea ta, ca o medalie după care-ai tânjit fără ca măcar să știi că alergi la olimpiadă. Te-ai pierdut pe drum, te-ai lăsat în urmă fără să privești în spate, după tine, te-ai întrecut, ai ieșit învingător, te-ai învins. Și râzi cu tot sufletul deschis, biciuit de curenți reci și picături de ploaie ce ți se lipesc de pleoape, ți se scurg pe haine, ți se topesc pe pielea înfierbântată încă.

Totul e frumos când ești departe de tine și de tot ce esti, tot ce ai fost + 1, tot ce ai trăit și ai vrea să nu o fi făcut. Ai un miez din tine în mâini, încă nealterat de frică imensă, de agresivitate, de remușcări, de compensări.

Îți pare bine să te privesti așa, sălbatic, diferit?

Îți curge viața prin vene, te-ai vindecat de inhibism și paralizie. De ipocrizie. De tine. De ei. De acolo. De atunci. De lumea bolnăvicioasă, tărăgănată, în care totul se desfășura cu încetinitorul, pentru ca nu cumva să te lovească viața în frunte și să-ți deschidă ochii și coastele și corpul și să intre în tine prin toți porii, prin toate gândurile, prin toate nesiguranțele dezgustătoare și prin rezerva nefirească față de ea, și ei, și tine… totul se reduce la frică atunci când nu iubești.

E vremea să înveți să iubești; e vremea acum, pentru că abia acum ai iubit libertatea pentru prima oară, și n-ai să mai vrei nicicând să posezi, drept condiție pentru a iubi. Expiră, ai trecut de punctul mort, nu mai ești suma poveștilor cu ceilalți, ești începutul tău.



Intr-o lume rece ca gheata, caldura lui curge ca lava; a mea, ca o suvita de sange dintr-o rana fina, redeschisa cand si cand.

Diferenta dintre noi o face intensitatea cu care ne manifestam pasiunea pentru viata. Ce pot spune, iubesc viata, insa mi-e teama ca ea nu ma va iubi pe mine. El, din contra, e generos. Ofera mult, pentru ca firea lui e o resursa inepuizabila de energie. Nu resimte efortul si nu-i e frica de pierderi, spune, caci se regenereaza. Placerea cu care traieste il vindeca, il vindeca continuu, il transforma si-l inobileaza. E un torent de curaj si profunzime frumoasa, blanda — paradoxal pentru mine, care am aflat de mica despre ireconciabilitatea trairii cu filosofia. Mi-au spus ca trebuie sa traiesc, asa c-am ucis visul si-am trait; cu teama-n suflet si stangacie-n miscari, pentru ca n-am fost niciodata aici. Resimteam profund dimensiunea prizonieratului — captiva intr-un loc mic, denumit general lumea mea; lumea noastra. Lumea. Nu-mi spuneau ca e mai mare…

Inadaptata e cuvantul in jurul caruia se-ntindea aceast pui de lume — stupid numita a mea — care m-a definit in ochii celorlalti. Traiam greoi si nu-mi puteam controla visarea. Imi vedeau, in ochi si pe buze, incantarea pe care-o resimteam la ideea de schimbare. Atunci clatinau, dezaprobator, din cap. Mi-au spus sa-mi daram peretii, caci altfel aveau sa ma zdrobeasca ei pe mine. Parca n-ar stii ca peretii mei sunt din carton si incaperile sunt mari si pustii. Oricine-i poate sparge, oricine-mi poate umple singuratatea cu prezenta-i galagioasa.

Dar numai el a stiut sa-i treaca fara sa imi darame, a nu stiu cata oara, fiinta si visele. Numai el a stiut sa se aseze tacticos la masa alaturi de mine si sa-mi umple casa cu magie — iar magicienii nu isi spun niciodata secretele. Tot el a observat primul ca am tendinta de a folosi acest plural colectiv ori de cate ori ma intreba de unde vin. In el mi-a citit slabiciunea, frica de trecut. Tacerea mea insemna ca fusesem imblanzita.

Eram un cal salbatic minunat conturat, totul pana la vederea unui tarus. Orice franghie ce ma lega de initierea mea in viata a trebuit taiata, roasa. Nu mai erau punti de intoarcere; si totusi, malul celalalt ramanea taramul nenorocirilor. Ma afundam in padure, ma reeducam, reinventam. Nu era de ajuns pentru el. Probabil ca nici pentru mine, caci continuam s-o fac fara oprire, fara progrese monitorizate. Dadea din cap moale, intelegator, iar mie-mi ingheta sangele-n vene.

Cunosteam gestul, asa incepe indepartarea — “prin aprobare fortata, nesincera; si dorinta de impresionare” — imi amintesc cuvintele lui. Incerc sa ma scuz in fata mea; de altfel, nu mint. Pe mine incerc sa ma impresionez in primul rand.

Camera spatioasa, luminoasa, se stranse dintr-o data in jurul meu. Vroiam sa-i ajung in brate; aproape de inima lui, si departe de mintea lui. Mi s-a asezat alaturi, cuprinzandu-mi genunchii si ridicandu-mi barbia spre el. Nu instaurase raceala, insa in interiorul cochiliei in care ma strangeam era frig… Chipul ma trada si acum, dupa atata vreme.

— Stai cu mine, iubito, mi-a spus pe un ton soptit. Vreau sa-ti omor demonii, insa tu tii cu dintii de ei.
— Chiar contrariul, incerc sa uit ca exista.
— De cand te cunosc, tot incerci. Stii ca nu e cu putinta. Si chiar de-ar fi, ei vor continua sa existe… adevaratele greutati pot fi depasite, a continuat cu finete, stiind ca atinge corzi sensibile. Doar cele imaginare sunt de neinvins.

De el ma indragostisem, mi-am confirmat atunci fara intentie. Imi inchidea ranile si ma facea sa uit cicatricile… insa la o privire mai atenta, conturul lor fin reaparea sub ochii mei stapaniti de groaza pe care-o traiam, zi de zi, la gandul ca cineva ma va lega la loc intr-o lume prea stramta, prea aglomerata. Frica mea e trista, absurda, haotica. O resimt in intreg organismul, facandu-mi praf ordinea interioara. Nu-mi pot aduna fortele-n fata ei, mi le risipeste de cate ori bate o briza a schimbarii.

— De ce vorbesti despre frica la persoana a treia? Frica n-are identitate. Tu esti frica.
Momente mai tarziu, aveam fruntile lipite si franele trase amandoi. El, pentru a nu ma intimida, iar eu, pentru ca-mi aminteam, incetineam viata… uram amintirea. Uram trecutul si tot ce tinea de el, tot ce ma tinea in loc.
— Pe tine te iubesc, i-am spus cu jumatate de glas, si in acelasi timp, sunt indragostita de tine. Tandrete si pasiune amestecate, ca-ntr-o delicioasa budinca din cele mai gustoase arome.
— Inseamna ca ai parte de jumatati de masura, mi-a replicat. Portiile sunt universale.

Nu-mi pasa de asta. Traiam in acelasi ritm, nu ma simteam niciodata lasata in urma, precum nu l-as fi lasat nici eu. Stiam, in acelasi timp, ca viteza sincronizata cu a altuia nu e niciodata maximul de potential; din cand in cand, tanjeam dupa o cursa sincera. Mi-era teama insa ca indepartarea provizorie putea fi inceputul sfarsitului.

El mi-era partener si bandaj, intimitate si forta. Nu ma limita la lumea noastra micuta, de altfel, fara garduri si poarta, ci ma lua de mana si ma ducea in locuri noi, imi arata alte drumuri. Le parcurgeam impreuna, dar asta nu ma deranja. Nu caut singuratatea cand sunt in cea mai frumoasa companie. Dar eu? Sunt eu cea mai frumoasa companie pentru el?

Stiu ca il vad distorsionat, dar mi-e atat de drag cand e linistit incat ii neg vijelia, incerc sa-l amortesc, sa-l am. E injectia mea cu vitamine, caci sunt bolnava de viata.
— Esti bolnava de frica vietii, de fapt, ma corecteaza el.
Zambesc si imi smulg jurnalul inapoi. Il las sa ma citeasca, sa ma descifreze, sa ma despice; sa ma-nlocuiasca, sa ma schimbe pe de-a-ntregul. El n-o face, spune ca-i place firea mea timida. Rad din complezenta si-i intorc spatele atunci. Inca n-a vazut nici el ca nu sunt timida, ci doar incatusata de teama. De el nu mi-e teama, asa ca aleg sa traiesc in lumea lui. Lumea reala e prea mare, ma pierd…

— Nu mai cauti aventurile, expansiunea, sansele? Te-ai limitat la mine, draga mea? ma-ntreaba uneori cu subinteles, iar sinele meu plange de furie.
“Pe tine te iubesc” sa-i raspund iar? Dar ce iubire stupida, o ascundere a fiintei mele in spatele alteia. Iau eu stiu ca vina-mi apartine-n totalitate si as simti la fel, chiar de-ar fi el sau altul.
— Eu vreau sa te vindec de teama, imi spune ca citindu-mi gandurile, ca sa stiu ca ma iubesti.
— Dar pe tine te iubesc, ripostez cu gandurile aiurea. Mi-as critica ipocrizia, daca nu m-ar unge pe suflet din cand in cand.
— Desigur, iubirea e un mijloc bun pentru a-ti gasi confortul. Insa ma iubesti din motivele gresite: nevoia, placerea de a defini. Chiar si-n lumea mea, ramai o inadaptata; asta pentru ca lumea interioara a unui om nu trebuie invadata, impartita. Ea e cladita pe tipare in care tu n-ai sa intri niciodata, si-n ea iti va fi mereu somn si foame.
— Eu nu m-am simtit inghesuita, deranjata de prezenta ta niciodata, ii raspund trista.
El ma saruta pe frunte si-mi spune tacticos:
— Asta pentru ca tu nu ai o lume a ta, iubito. Mediul in care ai crescut iti era mic, iar Pamantul te invaluia pe de-a intregul; ti-ai facut loc intr-a mea, atunci. Esti fericita, dormind pe canapea noapte de noapte?


I-am povestit astfel de episoade marunte in timp ce ne beam cafeaua, in piata centrala. Ea ma masura din priviri, fara sa ma-ntrerupa. O interlocutoare desavarsita, am gandit pana ce m-a oprit.
— Am inteles acum, mi-a spus dintr-o rasuflare. Dar ai uitat totul in legatura cu el?
Raspunsul imi parea evident, iar ea prostuta. Am mormait ceva scurt si mi-am scuturat capul.
— Ti-ai schimbat reperele, ti-ai delimitat o lume, ti-ai dobandit o identitate. Sigur ca n-ai uitat, acum nu mai e nevoie sa uiti ca sa poti merge mai departe.
A afisat un suras binevoitor care-i indulcea trasaturile, apoi si-a indreptat degetul aratator spre pieptul meu si m-a privit lung.
— Comorile devalorizate raman acolo; ca sa-ti amintesti mereu ce lucruri frumoase ai avut, ce lucruri frumoase mai meriti.



Ma scurg printre degete apasate si pumni inclestati; printre tine — oasele tale, si gandurile tale triste, capcanele ce le-ai pus in mine pentru a-mi prinde slabiciunile si surasul tau cristalin, atat de sigur — si neputinta mea, prin ochii mei inchisi si prin tremur, prin dorinte periodice de a ma revedea plina de soare si senzatii inselatoare de libertate blanda si frumoasa, ce-mi permite sa ma leg cu dragoste de oameni, locuri, lucruri. Si nimeni n-ar taia asemenea franghii frumoase, snururi din lana colorate, amintind de sarbatoare.

Rad, rad in soapte si rad in hohote. Cand nu ma gaseai, ma intindeam pe o tava urata, din plastic, si te fortam sa ma primesti. Imi zambeai cu intelegere atunci si ma asezai intr-un sertar intunecos; nici cadourile nedorite nu se returneaza…  A trebuit să fac ceva cu mine, e justificarea mea preferată, ca şi cum mi-ar fi explica şi alegerea.

Mi-am inchis mintea si mi-am rupt gandurile, unul cate unul. Le-am taiat cu satisfactia cu care tai panglica la intrarea unui eveniment indelung asteptat; totusi, nu reusesc sa ma afund in interior; am stat prea mult afara si pielea mi s-a ingrosat. Rezist la vanturi secetoase si friguri naprasnice, cum as putea sa cedez in fata sinelui meu slabit, uitat flamand intr-un cotlon atata vreme? Sunt lipsita de forta, nefericita vazandu-mi conditia. Gandurile mele erau murdare, roase de timp si nepasare. Nu m-am priceput niciodata la reconditionare; prefer sa arunc, sa inlocuiesc. Dar raman goala, sunt pamant sterp, sunt aer rece in pustietate. Asta e tot ce pot vedea din mine.

Martie, 2009

Bună, sunt Mel. Îmi pare bine. Sunt uraganul ce dansează în tine. Sunt ceea ce-ţi face simţurile să se împletească, sunt ceea ce îţi pune întreaga fiinţă în mişcare. Te fac să vibrezi şi să fi treaz. Te fac să te simţi viu, să nu uiţi de tine, să nu uiţi cine eşti, să nu uiţi că eşti. Nările ţi se mişcă în ritm cu pleoapele adormite. Ţi-am spus, te fac să fii întreg, te ajut să fi tu; şi ai atâta nevoie de tine, şi am atâta nevoie de tine.

Sunt tulburata la inceput, insa in scurta vreme redevin senina. Ma simt gata sa capitulez in fata personalitatii pierdute, a indraznelii copilaroase, incerc sa uit ca le-am uitat de mult, ca nu mai stiu sa le gasesc. De ce am avut atata nevoie de tine? De ce am dansat in tine, si nu in mine? Te privesc cu ochi uscati cum vorbesti inflacarat, cum te misti si iti invidiez puterea intreprinzatoare. Ma citesc si nu-mi vine a crede c-am avut odata extreme intre care alergam cu rasuflarea taiata, obaji moi si tigari slabe indoite in buzunare. Totul imi pare scos dintr-alta lume, imi spun in timp ce zac pe spate, asteptand ca firea mea vibranda dupa alte si alte senzatii sa se intoarca, spasita, la mine. Insa nu se intoarce; sunt ca un circ cu scamatori imbatraniti, singurul circ din tot orasul.

In momentul in care m-am plafonat, aparent matura, feminina si seaca, toata pasiunea a fugit din mine si s-a risipit in aerul caldut, varatic, ce-a urmat transformarii mele. Adevarul n-a mai stat cu mine; il plictiseam. Falsa mea nefericire m-a cuprins inainte sa-mi dau seama ca nu-i reala, ca nu poate fi reala. Cum dracului sa fiu atat de nefericita? Unde mi-a fost mintea, cand am crezut ca tristetea ma va vindeca de tristete?

Iunie, 2009

— […] Lumea asta-i asa mare, ca aproape-n fiecare coltisor al ei se va gasi un loc pentru mine, si de oriunde as putea rasari in lume ca fiind altcineva… sunt atatea jocuri pe care le pot juca, incat ma ajunge uneori frica de atata libertate. Iti dai seama cate vieti as putea trai si cat de putine pot alege? […]
— Si crezi ca-n noul tau joc va mai fi loc si pentru mine? Vei mai stii cine sunt, cine am fost?
— Sunt atatea vieti… ai auzit tu sa se anuleze, vreodata, una pe alta? Avem loc toti, dubluri ale noastre au loc sa se plimbe nestingherite pe bulevarde slab luminate… o mie ca mine ar putea supravietui intr-o lume, fara sa uite…
N-am sa uit niciodata… niciodata.

Când totul a tăcut m-am putut, în sfârşit, auzi. Un plânset prelung pentru tot ce-am pierdut, în încercarea de-a ţine pasul cu ceea nu eram. Un strigăt de groază ce-mi pretinde să mă opresc, înainte să nu mă mai recunosc, înainte să dau toate părţile frumoase celor care se scutură, căci s-au trezit înaintea mea. Pentru că nu suntem doar noi, suntem noi şi bucăţi din ceilalţi, şi ceilalţi sunt ei şi bucăţi din noi. E vina noastră, ne împărţim ca-ntre prieteni, să fim siguri că nu ne pierdem. Şi adevărul este că nimeni nu te vrea. Nimeni nu vrea sechele, fiinţe dezintegrate, amintiri dureroase povestite pe o bancă şi virtuţi oferite pe tavă, pentru a suplini lipsa virtuţilor proprii. În cele din urmă, sufletul mi-a zgâriat pielea şi a ieşit la suprafaţă sub forma unei oboseli imprimate pe chip şi lipsei de vlagă în gesturi.

Cand mi-au curs primele lacrimi, am stiut ca viata mi-a reintrat in sangele cald, ca Dumnezeu sau poate o lege a universului pe care-o personific mi-a facut infuzie cu tot ce-am risipit in jur. Peste tot pe unde-am mers am mai lasat cate putina bucurie, cate putin suflu tanar, invapaiat. Paradoxal, lumea nu s-a hranit cu tot ce-am lepadat mai bun, ci mi-a parut ca devine mai acra, mai rece cu mine. Cercul vicios m-a facut sa trec in interiorul lui, sa las circuitul fericirii in natura in afara mea, sa uit; sa uit. Sa uit! Sa uit de fericire, pentru a ma feri de lipsa ei…

O data cu uitarea, am pierdut singura sansa de-a vedea ceva real — lumea, viata, vibrand in jurul meu ca valurile marii in jurul unui pestisor auriu. Sunt norocoasa, imi pot implini dorinte daca vreau; dar sunt atat de… cand ma gandesc la cate dorinte mi-am indeplinit in ultima vreme, ma ingrozesc. Nici una.
Acum imi vreau sansa inapoi, poate in speranta ca imi va placea ce e-n jur, poate in speranta ca nu e real. Dar adevarul e ca visul n-a facut decat sa ma imobilizeze la pat, intristandu-ma asupra irealului. Mi-e dor de viata, mi-e dor sa ma afund in ea, mi-e dor de mine…

Nu mai am stare si, cu fiecare spasm al corpului meu, calc pe o mina. Sentimente noi sau nefolosite explodeaza, lasandu-mi totodata loc sa ma strecor inauntru. Nici o mirare ca amintirea ta e inca atat de vie, e ultima pe care-o am. Unde am fost tot timpul asta, ce am facut? Peste mine s-a asternut praful…
In noul meu joc nu va mai fi loc pentru tine.

Iar o mie de dubluri s-ar putea sa fie cam multe; e timpul sa anulez fragmentele de viata ce nu mi-au adus nici o satisfactie, sa pastrez doar eul actual, viu, regenerat.
Rad, rad in soapte si rad in hohote, insa nu ingrozita de ce am trait, ci coplesita de multitudinea de sanse dintre care inca pot alege.

Septembrie, 2011

Imi doresc acum sa nu-mi fi pus piedici niciodata, insa a ma vaita in legatura cu ramasul in urma doar va mari distanta dintre mine si oponentul meu, capacitatea maxima a potentialului ce refuzam sa-l vad in mine. M-au atras marginile traseului — nonvalorile, pentru imensitatea si deschiderea lor, ca niste pamanturi fertile pe care le-am contemplat in tacere, fara sa plantez nimic. Cumva, stiam ca-s ale nimanui, c-as investi in nimic si ca nimeni, nici macar eu, nu s-ar bucura de recolta. Am stat si le-am privit prosteste, asteptand ca de nicaieri sa se iveasca o placuta cu numele meu; insa ele au ramas goale, si dezamagirea provocata de asteptarea unui miracol nepromis, neasteptat, m-a golit si pe mine. If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you…

Am mazgalit foaia cu pixul, pana ce-am rupt-o. Asa cum mi-am rupt gandurile vechi, urate, trecute.

Septembrie, 2011

Buna, sunt Mel. Imi pare bine…



Dupa ce m-a lasat sa-i patrund in suflet, imaginea ei mi-a ramas intacta pentru multa vreme. In realitate, au fost doar cateva saptamani — dar pentru mine, fiind indragostit, au parut intreaga-mi viata. Continuam sa o contemplez in tacere si o abandonam inainte sa se trezeasca la viata; inainte sa-si roteasca ochii, sa-si scuture bratele si picioarele, sa ma traga inapoi in realitate. Eram convins ca am vazut destul, ca un crampei tine locul intregii ei existente. Acum stiu ca am fost naiv, dar cum visatorilor, se spune, le place condita lor, mie-mi placea ea, cu frumusetea ei, viclenia ei, inocenta ei. Imi placea s-o stiu astfel. S-o stiu un pic altfel.

Cand spunea cate o prostie, isi acoperea ochii cu mainile si se ruga sa nu o mai privesc — imi marturisea ulterior. Ii spuneam ca-i apreciez franchetea, iar ea isi lasa mainile intr-ale mele si casca ochii; pentru cateva clipe, credea cu adevarat ca disparuse din vizorul meu; dar eu aveam ochi numai pentru ea. O urmaream cum surade si isi cobora privirea catre mainile noastre, inlantuite. Imi parea sublima, minunata, si tot ce uram la ceilalti, iubeam la ea. Nu i-am vazut schimbarile.
De fapt, cred ca nu am vazut ca e vie.

Era-n continua transformare, iubita mea, metamorfozandu-se intr-un fluture de noapte. Afara din lumea noastra, intr-a ei, unde eu nu aveam acces decat ca vizitator, si neaparat pe timp de ziua (imi dau seama acum ca niciodata nu am vazut-o trista, mohorata, pana atunci) se intuneca. Atunci capata din ce in ce mai multa duritate, se inasprea, privirea-i devenea fixa si gesturile sigure, directe. M-a cutremurat— eram obisnuit cu finetea ei, insa ne amuzam teribil pe seama faptului ca e un adevarat cameleon social. Niciodata, nici pentru un moment, nu mi-am pus problema ca si eu sunt doar o alta situatie, un alt imbecil la care se adapteaza.

Dupa noaptea aceea lunga, niciodata.

Si-a bagat pumnul mic in buzunarul meu si-am mers asa cateva ore. O intrerupeam adesea s-o intreb daca nu-i e frig; in realitate, vroiam sa o duc la mine. Ea chicotea prosteste si isi continua ideea, eu dadeam din cap, simuland atentie. Stia sa se furiseze atat de bine sub masca ingenuitatii. Pe la ora cinci, cascase de vreo suta de ori, insa se tinea tare. Ne-am oprit intr-un parc, pe o banca joasa din lemn, plina cu roua. Se crapa de ziua chiar atunci. Mi-am pus un brat in jurul umerilor ei si-am impartit o doza cu suc ieftin. Chipul ei era proaspat, proaspat ca dimineata; avea obrajii rumeni si-o simteam zgribulita. Dintr-o data si-a scos picioarele din pantofi, drept pe iarba rece, umeda. Am stat asa pana la opt. Inventam povesti despre trecatori si ni le spuneam, cautand sa aflam care erau adevarate; despre noi. Inventa frumos, cu multa maiestrie, si ma simteam repede atras in jocurile ei. La sfarsit, stiam intotdeauna daca povestea i se potriveste; o citeam dupa muscatul buzelor, dupa privirea vinovata, in pamant; dupa felul in care se lipea, tot mai tare, de mine. La noua mi-a cerut sa-i intind un prosop de-al meu. Mi-a fost al naibii de lene sa ma ridic de pe canapea, insa am apucat unul verde din dulap si am batut la usa, ca-ntr-o casa straina. Ea a lasat-o apoi intredeschisa, si i-am ghicit miscarile dupa cum auzeam jeturile de apa. I-am facut un mic dejun in graba si mi-a multumit din priviri pline de promiscuitate. Stiam c-aveam s-o mai vad, cat de curand.

— Apropo, mi-a spus pe picior de plecare, fastacindu-se. Ai ghicit aproape fiecare adevar, ma vad datoare sa-ti dau niste explicatii.
— Nu-i nevoie, i-am raspuns (poate cam plin de sine). Macar stiu la ce sa ma astept.
— Tocmai, ca nu stii. Am adaugat si exclus multe detalii… dar fie, daca nu vrei, nu vrei. Cel putin stiu ca mi-ai prins esenta.

Am dansat prin casa inainte sa cad intr-un somn adanc. Intr-adevar, m-a vizitat chiar a doua zi. Avea un aer lejer, lipsit de complicitatea pe care eu inca o simteam, ca si cum uitase totul (cu exceptia apropierii noastre, pentru care parea inca sa-mi multumeasca atunci cand ne priveam in ochi). Dupa cum aveam sa vad, la fiecare intalnire urma sa o gasesc la fel de proaspata ca-n acea prima dimineata; ca si cum noaptea o spala de pacate si-o lasa curata, pura, noua.

Imi spunea ca se simte-n largul ei si eu radeam, radeam clipe la rand, sau sufletul meu radea. In orice caz, bucuria mea cea mai sincera rasuna in urechile ei, asurzite deja de prea multa vorbarie goala. Intr-adevar, imi parea incercata de viata (nu nega) si vroiam s-o protejez. Ea-mi raspundea ca sunt prea bun, prea moale — dar intotdeauna cu multa blandete.

Intr-o zi si-a uitat agenda la mine si-am tras cu ochiul.

Imi pare usor de stricat, ca o jucarie reparata, ca o papusa de carpa; e suficient sa-l lovesc in moalele fiintei ca sa-l destabilizez. Insa nicidecum nu ma gandesc la asta. Il iubesc cu multa siguranta, cu o inima plapanda, pe care uitasem ca o am, pentru ca el nu are forta, pentru ca nu risc sa mi-o zdrobesc. Il simt ca pe un aer caldut ce ma inconjura, ca pe niste brate din perne detasabile ale unui fotoliu; il indepartez cu usurinta cand ma incomodeaza, apoi ma-ntind si-l ridic la loc, sub capul meu ingreunat de griji, sub picioarele mele obosite. Dar ce stie el de oboseala mea… lui ii par… (o mazgalitura) exact asa cum vreau sa fiu, spunea.

Visul meu capata, dintr-o data, o consistenta solida; plumb. Pagina ei o contura, o umplea de cuvintele apasatoare, triste, pe care le invatasem pe rost dupa a treia citire. Cand s-a intors dupa agenda m-a vazut plimbandu-ma de colo-colo, nebun, cu hainele in mana. “Ar fi trebuit sa fi plecat pana atunci”, m-a anuntat constiincioasa. La dracu, acum imi tine si evidenta. M-a intrebat daca am patit ceva cu o voce usor ragusita, in timp ce-si indesa carnetelul gros in geanta.

— Tu nu esti reala, am spus cu voce tare, fara sa vreau (desi nu sunt sigur).
— Sunt reala, mi-a spus asezandu-se in fata fotoliului pe marginea caruia stateam, leganandu-ma inainte si inapoi, ca pentru a ma consola singur.
Parca astepta sa fie descoperita, ca sa aiba sansa sa vorbeasca.De altfel a mentionat ca nu-mi vrea raul, insa asta nu-i o scuza.
Stie despre ce vorbesc. Desigur; iubita mea doar joaca rolul fetitei nestiutoare.
— Dar nu sunt cum ma vezi tu, si asta e adevarat. Eu cea pe care-o vezi… aceea e o nascocire frumoasa. Insa nu ma poti blama, am lucrat amandoi la asta.
Imaginea ei, vorbind (continua sa vorbeasca dar n-am mai auzit-o pentru un minut) imi parea chiar iadul, decolorat, ostil – brusc am vazut-o palida, imbracata in alb si negru, cu parul blond spalacit si buzele nude. Insa as fi ales iadul de o mie de ori pentru ea, caci ii citeam in ochi prospetimea. Si cum altfel, cand se hranea cu atentie…
— Arati bolnavicios, i-am spus fara sa ma pot controla.
Am ranit-o, am stiut. S-a retras pe loc si a tacut, derutata.
Si eu eram derutat.

— Stii de unde se ia sanatatea? am intrebat-o, facand pe desteptul. Din frumos, din natura si din fericire. Tu, pe de alta parte…
Ce a urmat a fost sa o masor cu privirea, dezgustat, din cap pana in picioare, de atatea ori incat a plecat singura; furioasa; indignata. Insa nu ma opream aici. Inca ma misc pe fotoliul asta blestemat, pe care de atatea ori am fost cu ea. O alintam uneori, asemanand-o cu o raza de soare. O raza de soare, rad acum ca un prost, intr-o camera intunecata, cu igrasie, cu mucegai…

Acum stiu ca deseori am sa ma intreb ce s-ar fi intamplat daca;
daca i-as fi vrut adevarul si nu misterul, povestea si nu farmecul.
Vreau sa aflu ce griji ii impanzesc mintea, ce drumuri o obosesc, ce o determina sa-si intinda tacticos pe mine trupul pentru a se reface. Vreau toate detaliile ei, pentru care am fost prea sigur cand a fost nesigura (prima si ultima data?) gata sa mi le spuna. Vreau sa aflu cine e iubita mea.

In noaptea asta, voi fi pe urmele ei. Suna prostesc, insa e singurul plan pe care-l am. Ma ridic, ma scutur si ma imbrac, apoi continui sa ma invart in jurul mesei. Da, sunt nervos. E inteligenta, desi pozeaza ca fiind contrariul. Insa daca ma lasa sa-i aflu adevarata natura, promit s-o duc spre ce-si doreste sa fie — ceea ce e, atunci cand e cu mine. Astept seara cu nerabdarea unui pusti care asteapta Craciunul in mijlocul verii…

Pentru jumatatile care nu mai au piese complementare. Pentru mine si


Mi-am dat seama, dintr-o data, ce se intampla cu mine. A fost ca si cum m-as fi trezit dintr-un somn lung, cand usile se trantesc cu zgomot de pereti si cineva te anunta ca urmeaza o zi plina. Entuziasmul mi-era obosit, lenes, bolnav; ma acopeream cu caldura neputintei si speram, in secret, sa fiu lasata in urma.

— Oamenii au o anumita atractie vis a vis de minciuna, asta n-a fost ceva nou. Dar raspunsul nu putea fi atat de simplu; cu ea era ceva mai mult. In ciuda vechii repulsii fata de minciuni, se obisnuise de la o vreme sa tolereze neadevarul cu sufletul usor, ca mangaiat de brize calde. Parea s-o linisteasca iluzia, inainte insuportabila. Atunci cand realitatea a lovit-o in moalele capului, ameteala a oprit-o din a se ridica de la pamant. N-am putut face nimic, eram doar un spectator agatat de franghiile intinse pe laturile ringului. O data ce si-a adunat puterile insa, n-a mai fost aceeasi. Umbla frenetic, isi sorbea cafeaua pana la ultima picatura desi deborda mereu de energie, iar rasul acela delicat de pustoaica se transformase intr-un cosmar pentru mine — zgomotos, fortat, insa plin de naturalete si vigoare. Era ca si cum se straduise sa devina puternica si, in ciuda rarelor scapari ale falsitatii pe margini, o reusise. In sinea mea, o invidiam. Imi parea sedata de durere, cu mintile ratacite, ratacite insa intr-un paradis in care eu cel neincercat de viata nu aveam, totusi, acces. Mi-era frica pentru ea, dar mi-era mai frica pentru mine — daca urma sa nu ma molipsesc niciodata de rasul ei?

— Stiam, pe cat se putea de clar, ca atunci cand cele zece secunde vor fi trecut eu voi putea alege intre a ma ridica si a ramane, insa refuzam, cu ultimele puteri, sa ma dau batuta. Urma sa fie ultima oara si-o puteam face ca fiind alta persoana. Desi doborata, mi-a scapat un ranjet; dar trebuia s-aleg repede, si sa-mi las la pamant slabiciunea. Cu alte cuvinte, sa-mi pierd frica pentru totdeauna. Inima-mi batea repede si-i simteam bataile in tot corpul, in minte si-n imaginatie — imi puteam vedea deja noua viata alaturi de el, in sange, in muschi. Nu stiu de unde am avut forta dar am facut-o, mi-am scuturat bratele si picioarele si mi le-am simtit revigorate; straine.

— N-am incetat niciodata sa o iubesc. Nici cand zacea ghemuita pe podea, plangand cu spasme, nici cand a zambit tacticos, si-a schimbat hainele, firea…

— N-am simtit niciodata ca nu ma mai iubeste… cred.

— N-am reusit insa niciodata sa-i inteleg schimbarea: nici cum s-a produs, nici cum a evoluat. Noua ea, da, mi-era draga… dar simteam lipsa firii ei slabe, capricioase. N-o mai putea imbratisa, caci ea nu mai avea nevoie de imbratisari.

— Sigur c-aveam, in continuare, nevoie de imbratisari, sarutari si aprecieri, insa hotarasem sa-mi abandonez nevoile, asa cum satisfacerea lor m-a abandonat pe mine. Intr-o lume in care slabiciunea m-a adus la pamant, hotarasem s-o elimin si sa ma recladesc din temelii — si, pe cat posibil, chiar fara ele. Fara provenienta, pierduta in produsul imaginatiei mele, asa ma visam; si de ce nu? Era ultima sansa pe care eram de acord sa mi-o mai ofer. Fusesem, in ciuda credintelor mele, o lasa, si el o stia. Il detestam pentru ca ma iubea chiar si asa, in loc sa ma forteze sa ma schimb. Teama imi omora potentialul cu fiecare zi, si ma priveam in oglinda trista, dezarmata. Imi cunosteam valoarea, insa mi-o scadeam sistematic. El parea sa aiba nevoie de echilibru si hotarasem sa i-l acord. Nu l-as fi parasit asadar, in plus il iubeam, insa cat despre respect…

— De respectat, da, o respectam mai mult acum, pana la intimidare chiar. Cel putin, asa a fost in prima faza. Forta ei era tulburatoare si oricine statea-n preajma ei o putea simti. Totusi, am descoperit curand greseli… Tuna si fulgera din cand in cand, iar zugraveala se scurgea atinsa de apa, dezgolindu-i anxietatile cu care se lupta de cand am cunoscut-o… zambeam bland in sinea mea, caci ma bucuram s-o regasesc vie, adorabila. Aparenta ei perfectiune ma exaspera. Simteam ca nu poate fi reala. Stateam intins si citeam carti, privind, din cand in cand, peste cap; ropotele ploii bateau in geam si-o loveau, erodandu-i noul ambalaj.

— Am inceput sa-l detest si mai tare cand i-am citit invidia-n ochi. Se bucura pentru rarele mele insuccese, pentru scaparile mele de furie necontrolata, pentru orice injurie la adresa mea. Se bucura sa ma vada, inca o data, cu perdelele trase la o parte, gata sa-i arat noua mea lume interioara— mobila rearanjata in camerele diferit delimitate.

– Cum as fi putut s-o mint pe ea, cand era ceea ce iubisem cel mai mult in ultimii ani? Insa inteligenta merge adesea mana in mana cu meschinaria; caci numai oamenii inteligenti stiu sa fie vicleni in asa fel incat sa raneasca dupa mai multa vreme, cand patrund adanc in interiorul fiintei tale si nu mai stii sa-i scoti afara fara a rupe, o data cu ei, si-o parte din tine. I-am atras atentia asupra noii sale rautati, insa n-am primit raspuns decat mai multa rautate si, in final, indiferenta ei plictisita. Mi-era teama ca incepe sa-si creada minciunile, asa cum i le-am crezut si eu, pana cu putin timp in urma.

— El e obstacolul. El e piedica, ultima aschie ramasa infipta in pielea mea veche, ce nu se mai regenereaza. El se vrea alter ego-ul meu, dar nu-i deloc un prost ce ma tine pe loc, un sac plin cu faina ce atarna de mine, ce nu ma lasa sa zbor departe de cine am fost. El e singurul ce-mi mai aminteste cine am fost…

— Eu sunt singurul ce-i mai aminteste cine a fost…

— … singura parte ramasa din mine, ultima mea amintire mea intr-o lume de nebuni in care ma invart acum, eu, sau o alta eu careia nu stiu sa-i coordonez miscarile caci n-am vrut de la inceput sa invat s-o mai fac… nu mai vreau limite, insa el imi pastreaza forma si mi-e teama ca-mi va fi dor sa ma privesc, sa ma simt, sa simt ca mine…

— … nu pot s-o las descentrata, lipsita de radacini, caci am s-o pierd in lumea celorlalti. Ea-si neaga lumea interioara, sterge lumea noastra si depreciaza intimitatea ce-am creat-o, alege expansiunea-n locul intensitatii; uita cu rapiditate si formeaza povesti incredibile, legaturi noi si fragile… se risipeste-n aerul pe care-l respira gramada de oameni din jur, se descompune. Mi-e dor de ea solida, parca mai puternica, clar delimitata… unii ar spune ca dispretuiesc spontaneitatea, schimbarea, insa mie, mie mi-e doar dor de consistenta ei frumoasa, pe care-o puteam imbratisa inainte.

— … l-as smulge din mine si l-as da la o parte, pentru a putea fi cine incep sa devin… insa caldura lui, noaptea tarziu, cand obosesc, mi-e inca acasa. Am atata nevoie de el, caci de nu mi-ar mai observa nimeni impuritatile noii mele fiinte, as crede ca m-am transformat pentru totdeauna, ca n-am sa mai stiu vreodata sa revin. Am crezut ca pot controla balansul a doua lumi, insa ma pierd, ma pierd… as crede ca nimeni nu ma mai vede pe mine, as crede ca nimanui nu-i mai pasa, ca nimeni nu ma mai cunoaste cu adevarat…

— … are atata nevoie de mine.

Mi-am dat seama, dintr-o data, ce se intampla cu mine. A fost ca si cum m-as fi trezit dintr-un somn lung, cand usile se trantesc cu zgomot de pereti si cineva te anunta ca urmeaza o zi plina. Entuziasmul mi-era obosit, lenes, bolnav; ma acopeream cu caldura neputintei si speram, in secret, sa fiu lasata in urma.

Dar el nu m-a lasat in urma. Niciodata. Nici atunci cand singura am facut-o, in favoarea cuiva nou, care placea, insa falsa. Desi ma bucuram de nou, in sinea mea ma consideram neputincioasa de a ma-ntoarce si nimic nu m-ar fi entuziasmat mai tare decat a fi, inca o data, fata care eram si pe care-o iubea, in ciuda slabiciunilor. Proiectia mintii mele m-a dezamagit; ma indepartase de lumea-mi draga pentru a ma trimite acolo unde nu sunt draga nimanui.

M-a recunoscut indata. Mi-era inca greu, ma simteam amortita, greoaie… uram sa fiu altcineva, dar ma voi vindeca curand. Iar respectul meu s-a directionat dinspre mine spre el, singurul care a fost acolo atunci cand pana si eu lipseam.



Atunci cand lucrurile au inceput sa ia o alta turnura am stiut c-am ramas sa fiu singura care statea, inca, pe loc. Treptat, evenimentele mi-au aratat ca lumea mea se reorganizeaza. In orice parte alergam de schimbare, o regaseam sub alta forma, si cand m-a ingradit ca niste pereti grosi m-am izbit de el si-am incercat sa-mi creez o camera noua, numai a mea, in niste brate straine. Nu am fost martora la schimbarile lui, asadar nu le-am luat in calcul. De altfel, nu-l luam in serios niciodata. Regulile convietuirii noastre impreuna fusesera trasate in urma cu cateva saptamani si le urmam orbeste. M-am convins in scurta vreme sa nu mai cred in elasticitatea lor.

Dar in seara aceea de vara, cand imi mangaia spatele in timp ce ne uitam la o emisiune fara sonor, am stiut ca nici unul dintre noi nu mai era de multa vreme atent.
Prin geamurile larg deschise intrau caldura de peste zi si sunetele strazii, fara de care am fi fost condamnati sa ne analizam problemele cu maturitate.
Biet prieten al meu, companie dupa furtuna, protector al lumii mele, nu ai reusit sa-mi mentii intacta decat iluzia. M-ai tinut in brate insa nu mi-ai putut inchide ochii, asa c-am asistat tot singura, cu barbia rezemata de umarul tau, la dezastru.
Nu-l uram pentru ca era ignorant, insa mi-era indiferent de cand l-am cunoscut. Am gasit in el alinare doar intr-atat cat sa-mi distraga atentia pentru cateva minute scurte si compacte, in care imparteam cate-o tigara in bucatarie sau la televizor, analizam vremea intinsi pe perne mari din balcon sau ne povesteam nimicurile zilei.
Nu-i consumam incet in mine problemele, pentru ca-n ochii mei ramanea un trup cald, de care sa ma lipesc atunci cand fulgera si filmul se intrerupe din cand in cand.
Nu vorbeam prea mult; de altfel, nici prea des. Ne impartaseam uneori lucrurile importante care ne apasau, insa cum ele nu-si gasesc solutia in raspunsul unui strain amabil abia le mentionam. Nu ne sfatuiam si nu ne certam niciodata, si dupa cate o ora, reveneam la a fuma o tigara pe balcon, discutand nimicuri pana o terminam.

Am facut o astfel de conventie inca de la inceput. Urma sa ne fim confidenti, sa ne ajutam reciproc la cumparaturi si curatenie. Sa ne sarutam indelung, sa avem o singura agenda telefonica, sa nu ne ascundem trecutul si cu atat mai putin prezentul. Sa invatam ceea ce nu am fost niciodata invatati sa facem — sa traim intens; fara teama altor ochi, altor pareri. Insa toate acestea aveau un pret — cealalta latura presupunea sa eliminam din start emotiile si implicarea, pana la punctul in care ideile celuilalt nu mai reprezinta nimic.
Vietile noastre se transformasera in timp record in ceva cu totul diferit decat ceea ce planuisem initial, asa c-am renuntat cu bucurie la afectivitate in favoarea superficialului. Imi parea chiar ca toata aceasta punere in scena a mediocritatii era o extrema — una pe atat de lipsita de intensitate a simtirilor pe cat se dorise sa fie exact opusul; el si cu mine vroiam sa ne concentram pe trairi. Sa savuram o prajitura in compania cuiva, pentru a nu innebuni de singuratate, insa fara ganduri in timpul siestei — oare ma mai iubeste? Nu, nu ma iubeste. Certitudinile ma facusera sa ma simt stapana pe mine, in ciuda ruinelor ce se rostogoleau, cand si cand, din vechea mea cetate.
El a ajuns aici din motivele gresite — avea un viitor frumos in fata, insa-l nega cu vehementa. Nu-si dorea confortul si incepusem sa cred in nefericirea lui pentru ca se nascuse avandu-l impejur. Era un boem de altfel, si-ntr-o noapte tarzie, cand a vorbit mai mult decat era cazul, am crezut chiar ca-mi devine drag. Desigur ca, pana dimineata, caldura sentimentelor inchipuite s-a evaporat. M-am ridicat din pat si m-am dus sa-mi fac un ceai. Era-n bucatarie, cu o cescuta in mana si un zambet frumos pe chip. Am suras incurcata si am plecat fara sa mai mananc.

Nu ma temeam de mine pentru ca aveam deplina incredere in el. Era barbat, pana la urma, si-si va respecta cuvantul, asa am sperat. Dar dupa ce am urmarit nemiscati o emisiune intreaga fara sa auzim un cuvant din ea, am stiut ca prezenta celuilalt ne tintuia, de fapt, pe loc. M-am desprins din bratele lui si-am plecat sa fumez. Ca-ntotdeauna, m-a urmat — am hotarat ca, pe langa sentimente patetice, vom elimina si stupida singuratate din vietile noastre. Daca hotaram ca nu mai vrem sa fim vulnerabili, atunci nu vom lasa lipsa prezentei umane sa ne readuca la stadiul ei.
Pentru prima oara, a lui ma incurca cu adevarat. S-a-ntamplat sa ma mai tulbure, insa-mi scuturam capul si orica scenariu disparea. Traim ce vrem, am decis de la-nceput, dar cu grija ca trairile sa nu ne sensibilizeze la loc.

Era trecut de unu noaptea si aerul era inca greoi, irespirabil. L-am privit cu coada ochiului — nici el nu purta decat un maiou si pantaloni scurti. Ne asemanam, am ras in sinea mea, dar nu-mi inchipuiam sa-l pot bate frateste pe umar. Am tras cu pofta din tigara, ca si cum ar fi fost singurul lucru placut pe care mi-l permiteam la ora aceea tarzie. Apoi, dupa ce am urmarit masinile multa vreme, m-am intors inspre el, gata sa-i propun o plimbare nocturna. L-am surprins privindu-ma. Nu oricum, insa, ci cu coada ochiului. Am inghitit in sec — iar el si-a intors, incet, capul spre strada. Stiam prea bine ce-nseamna asta, doar tocmai ce…

Atunci cand lucrurile au inceput sa ia o alta turnura, am stiut c-am ramas sa fiu singura care statea, inca, pe loc. El nu parea nesigur, asa ca mine. De altfel, de ce m-as minti? Treptat, evenimentele mi-au aratat ca lumea mea noua, alaturi de el tot timpul, se reorganizeaza. In orice parte alergam de schimbare, o regaseam sub alta forma, si cand m-a ingradit ca niste pereti grosi m-am izbit de privirea lui si-am stiut c-am ramas pe deplin singura de data asta. Langa mine mai era cineva — un om care m-a tinut in brate doar pentru ca mi-a fost teama sa ma uit in spate fara a-i fi agatata de umeri, un om pe care refuzam cu inversunare sa-l iau in seama. Si la fel, am stiut c-am redevenit vulnerabila — la el.



Mintea, gândurile îmi sângerau. Era ca şi cum o parte din minte mi-ar fi operat-o pe celaltă fără anestezic. Capul mi-era îngreunat de o durere slabă, dar continuă. Ştiu sigur că nu aş fi fost un medic bun — mă învârteam în jurul cozii, incapabilă să identific sursa durerii şi tratamentul corespunzător; îmi plăcea însă să experimentez pe singurul meu pacient.
Când am trecut prin dreptul ghenelor de gunoi, m-a oprit.

— M-am săturat să mergem în linişte, mi-a spus brusc.
Am tras adânc aer în piept. Sufletul mi-era refugiat altundeva, speriat de lama bisturiului conştiinţei mele neiertătoare. Am rămas singură, eu şi un corp înfrigurat, eu şi remuşcările mele, eu şi cu mine, cu latura mea urâtă. Nu ştiam unde să-l caut. Nu ştiam ce să-i spun. Nu ştiam să-i vorbesc, nici prin strigăte de disperare şi nici prin muţenie.
— Cred că sunt inexpresivă…
— Ce? m-a-ntrebat râzând, apoi a luat un ton grav.
N-a spus nimic, dar l-am simţit pregătit să mă ia în serios.
— Cred că, dacă aş fi un artist, n-aş ştii să creez. Şi că dac-aş fi o operă de artă, n-aş transmite nimic. Arta nu ştie să vorbească pe limba nimănui, iar oamenii uită repede limbajul semnelor inimii. Aş fi ambiguă, incitantă; aş da naştere la întrebări şi interpretări, te-aş determina să te foloseşti de intuiţie ca să-mi înţelegi esenţa. Dar, până la urmă, te-ai plictisi şi-ai renunţa. Aş fi sculptura unei fiinţe frumoase şi interesante, dar lipsite de mesaj.
M-a oprit în loc, puţin după tomberoanele acelea verzui — mase de plastic urâte ce erau. Oricine ne-ar fi privit ar fi spus că suntem doi nebuni savurând liniştea, doi sălbatici domesticiţi pentru câteva clipe de odihnă. M-a privit îndelung din cap până-n picioare, apoi şi-a lipit faţa de a mea.
— Incitantă, a şoptit, şi i-am simţit buzele curbându-se într-un zâmbet pe obrazul meu. Densă, plină de esenţă, răvăşitoare. Frumoasă şi interesantă, nu ştiu, am încetat de mult să-ţi observ trăsăturile fizice. Eşti îmbrăcată într-un suflet, în purtări şi zâmbete, în idei nobile şi gânduri caraghioase, în tine.
— Dar caut şi nu găsesc.
— Dar eu tocmai te-am văzut.
Am închis ochii şi am respirat prin haina lui groasă, trăgând în mine drogul complicităţii noastre în căutarea mea. A mea, a mea, căci pe mine m-am aruncat cu bună ştiinţă la groapa de gunoi a oraşului, a lumii şi a mea, a mea, căci pe mine nu mă mai vroiam.
Mă găseam slabă şi temătoare, incapabilă să încasez loviturile ce mi le dădeam singură pentru a-mi testa rezistenţa. Şi sufletul meu s-a conformat şi s-a descompus, s-a ascuns în fiecare celulă din mine şi astfel a dispărut; m-am trezit dintr-o dată goală şi rece, fără să ştiu că el respiră încă prin fiecare por al meu.
— Mă vezi, i-am spus, ca pentru mine. Cum faci asta, cum faci să mă vezi? Eu nu mă văd…
O mână caldă mi-a atins bărbia rece şi mi-a întors-o încet spre chipul lui.
— Nu te mai uita înspre gunoaie, mai avem de mers…



Am tăcut intenţionat şi m-am prefăcut brusc interesată de unghiile mele roase până la carne. Ştiam că n-am să vorbesc. Ştiam, de la bun început, de când l-am sunat în hohote de plâns şi râs isteric, de când m-am încălţat în grabă şi mi-am îndesat şireturile-n pantofi, de când am fugit până la el fără să mă opresc că n-aveam să-i spun nimic.

Cel mai probabil o ştia şi el. Nu mi-a pus nici o întrebare, m-a privit îndelung şi m-a tras înăuntru. Am făcut câţiva paşi şi m-am prăbuşit lângă canapea, fără să mai am vreun control asupra emoţiilor mele.
Atunci mi-a pus o mână prieteneşte pe umăr. Inima, care bătea să-mi spargă pieptul, mi s-a oprit pentru câteva clipe, doar pentru ca ritmul respiraţiei să mi se accelereze, secunde mai târziu, în încercarea de a-mi sorta gândurile şi a înţelege ce naibii tocmai a făcut.
Mi-am întors capul peste umăr, peste mâna lui — uitată, speram, dintr-o oribilă greşeală pe umărul meu, în semn de prietenie—şi l-am privit drept în ochi. Avea o blândeţe aparte în privire. Nu-mi era teamă de penibil. Toate temerile mele s-au risipit o dată cu criza asta compulsivă care a pus acaparare pe mine. Puteam mai rău de atât? I-am îndepărtat mâna cu un gest brutal şi m-am cuibărit în braţele lui, în speranţa că mă va îmbrăţisa. Dar nu făcu decât să se sprijine în coate şi aveam senzaţia stupidă că-mi suflă-n creştet. Aşa că l-am prins de bărbie şi i-am întors chipul spre mine.
Nu mă intimida doar calmul lui, ci şi culpabilitatea mea. Sălbatică cum fusesem până atunci, eram pe punctul de a-l ataca pentru că nu intră cu forţa-n sufletul meu, pentru că nu mă descoase până când nici un secret al meu nu va mai putea purta această denumire. Trebuiam scoasă din mine şi-l simţeam responsabil pentru asta. M-am lăsat să alunec înapoi pe parchet şi m-am cuibărit cu capul pe pieptul lui. Frica îmi trecuse. Panica, la fel. Ştiam că nu voi mai plânge, ştiam şi că nu am nimic să-i spun. M-am prefăcut, aşadar, brusc interesată de unghiile mele roase până la carne.

Mâna lui îmi trecuse prin păr de sute de ori. De cele mai multe ori, înainte ca eu s-o rup la fugă de lângă el. Niciodată n-am privit în urma mea, habar n-aveam ce făcea. Era modul meu de a fi revoltată pe pasivitate şi destrămare. El era cobaiul meu pe care-mi vărsam furia, pe care-l lăsam să mă iubească în timp ce eu călcam pe spinarea lui arcuită, pe corzile inimii lui, pe toată frumuseţea ce zăcea în mintea lui uimitoare și pe care n-am vrut niciodată să o explorez. Era trambulina pe care a trebuit să sar ca să învăţ să zbor. N-aveam nevoie de îmbrăţişări ca funii strânse-n jurul corpului până la durere. Și uite-mă acum. Zac pe o podea lucioasă, în braţele care nu vor să mă mai ţină.
Şi refuz, refuz cu încăpăţânare să-i spun povestea mea, să-i spun cu cine are de-a face — o copilă cu lumea la picioare, ce stă acum la picioarele lui.
— Nu mă lăsa singură cu mine, i-am spus ochi umezi şi buze tremurânde, muşcate.
Gândurile mi se amestecau cu rapiditate si rautate. Mă înfiora cum nu mă puteam opri din a vedea lucruri urâte, scenarii triste și absurde, care-mi provoacau greață și frică. Nu aș face rău nici unei muște, dar pe mine m-aș fi sfârtecat pentru toate astea.
Obișnuiam să cred că sunt un loc frumos în care să trăiesc, însă acum găsesc în mine urâțenia, lipsa de control, anxietatea. Lumea e doar un drog tranchilizant, care mă anesteziază și nu-mi mai simt răutatea. Aş fi preferat să mă alunge şi el, pentru că bunătatea e cea puternică armă împotriva răutăţii închipuite din oameni.

— Dacă-i nevoie, încui uşa şi închid ferestrele; de data asta nu-mi mai scapi printre degete.
Mi-am muşcat buzele până la durere. Sufletul meu era la adăpost şi-ncepea să se recompună. Simţeam o dorinţă nebună de a-l lăsa să mă cunoască, cea mai periculoasă dorinţă pe care am avut-o vreodată pentru că de data asta, nu mă mai aveam decât pe mine — şi eram gata, gata să mă împart.
M-am întors si l-am îmbrăţişat cu prietenie. Da, a ştiut mai bine decât mine că n-am nevoie de dovezi siropoase de iubire trecută, ci de un umăr pe care să plâng, un umăr pe care el şă-şi răsfire degetele, nişte umeri pe care să mă sprijin în timp ce constat, cu stupoare, că nu mai am lacrimi — pentru că nu mai am nevoie de ele.
Am zâmbit şi a simţit-o, pentru că m-a strâns mai tare.
M-am desprins din braţele lui şi l-am lăsat să-şi treacă mâinile prin părul meu, fără să fug de data asta.

Haos si imaginatie


Merită să trăieşti numai o dată? ar trebui să fie finalul, când constat că aş fi putut alege atâtea, lua atâtea alte drumuri… Dar finalul e chiar aici, îl amestec cu linguriţa în cafea şi zâmbesc prosteşte, cu gustul ei amar pe buzele crăpate de frig. Nu am dormit noaptea asta. Fraze fără noimă, împărţite ca fluturaşii în direcţii deja pierdute, poveşti scurte împărtăşite cu ceilalţi — o grămăjoară de suflete fără identitate şi chip de care-mi amintesc în trecere, fără tresăriri. Tu, care tremurai o dată cu mine, zi şi noapte, când îmi purtam teama în sânge; teama s-a dizolvat şi s-a făcut una cu mine, celulele curajoase au anihilat-o. Te-am pierdut. Vise lungi în culori calde şi o lumină albă, orbitoare, s-o ia naiba de dimineaţă, care nu mă lăsa niciodată să le văd până la capăt, pe care trebuia să le trăiesc.

Privită din camera mea, lumea era haotică, incitantă, cu posibilităţi nesfârşite. Ardeam de dorinţa de a mă ridica şi a mă avânta, cu mult mai mult curaj, chiar în mijlocul ei. Dar nu ştiam să trăiesc acolo. Trebuia să o iubesc, şi nu eram sigură că o iubesc încă.
Mi-am dus mâinile la gură şi am strănutat cu putere. Praful mă zgâria pe gât. Mi-am rotit privirea de jur împrejur şi, după puţin timp, am reuşit să mă opresc cu greu dintr-o tuse seacă.

Dacă aş putea alege un moment potrivit pentru un curs de viaţă frumoasă, probabil că ar fi acum. Mi-aş da jos folia protectoare de pe inimă, sau orice altceva aş mai fi învăţată acolo, aş face ce mi s-ar cere, ce ar fi nevoie, şi aş face-o acum. Dacă aş putea să…
Aerul e îmbâcsit, închis şi mă sufoc printre particule de praf şi murdărie. Ma-ntreb cum ar putea cineva trăi aici, când remarc cu stupoare că nu-i nimic în jur ce să nu fie al meu. Atât de tare am înrădăcinat în mine toate gunoaiele ce le-am întâlnit în zbor; pentru c-ar fi trebuit să fie un zbor, liber şi frumos. Mă aflu în lumea mea, şi lumea mea o debara plină de praf. Cum îmi curăţ sufletul de mizerii? Sunt grele şi sunt multe, şi dacă aş putea să aleg să-l limpezesc, aş alege s-o fac acum…

Viteză şi sentiment, aşa-mi vedeam lumea, deşi ştiam că ritmul ei real era mult mai puţin alert. Vibram de nerăbdare să retrăiesc, sau, la dracu cu toate amintirile, să trăiesc altceva.

M-aş fi scos afară, eram sălbăticită, înrăită de ciudă. Ca-ntr-o goană nebună ce împrăştie mizeria de pe drum în urma-i, acopeream tot ce trăisem, tot ce simţisem vreodată. Hotărâtă să o închid şi s-o pierd în urmă, oricât ar fi fost de a mea, am ieşit din casă o dată cu lumina dimineţii pentru o plimbare lungă şi mi-am aerisit sufletul şi pielea îmbâcsite de praf şi fum și o lume trăită tot mereu greșit. Aveam nevoie de aer proaspăt, care să mă învăluie şi să mă încălzească. Eram rece, rece ca un sloi de gheaţă, şi acoperită cu un strat generos de particule de amintiri frumoase — greoaie, incomode, la fel ca cele urâte. Vroiam să-mi şterg sufletul încet, cu multă grijă, dar ştiam că m-ar fi costat timp preţios şi îndelungat. Nu mai vroiam să separ raiul de iad; vreau numai să trăiesc.

Se întinde o lume întreagă în faţa mea, şi se scurge o viaţă întreagă prin venele mele. Şi zâmbesc în timp ce amestec finalul prost în cafea.



Ţi s-a limpezit privirea, mi-a spus şoptit.
Avea părul dezordonat şi machiajul întins până pe bărbie. Îi simţeam rânjetul în toate celulele, ca o explozie de fericire ce ar fi avut loc înăuntrul meu. Dar nu i-l cunoşteam, nu l-am mai văzut, nu aşa recunoscător.
Ploua mărunt după săptămâni lungi şi uscate şi mirosul greu, de praf şi iarbă uscată, intra pe geamurile deschise. Fierbinţeala asfaltului de peste zi se ridica și mă-nvăluia. Inspiram grăbită aerul cald şi murdar, ca pe cea mai plăcută, răcoritoare briză. Pentru mine nu era decât aroma noului.

Cu mine făcusem, recent, cel mai îngrozitor pact. Nu mi-am vândut sufletul diavolului, ci l-am aruncat la gunoi fără să cer nimic în schimb. Am renunţat la ură în favoarea degradării în deplină ignoranţă. În loc să mă sabotez în continuare, pe fiecare zi ce trecea deveneam doar mai apatică, mai docilă, până când entuziasmul şi rebeliunea mi s-au dizolvat în celule precum zahărul în ceai —imposibil de separat, de regăsit, de reclădit. Pierdute în mine, şi n-aş fi lăsat nimic în lume să mă opereze.

Tremuram acum din toţi rărunchii şi mă analizam la rece. Vroiam înapoi pe scenă, înapoi în faţă.

Înainte de asta, m-am jucat cu mine aşa cum oamenii se joacă cu hamsterii sau câinii — cu o plăcere aproape sadică în a-i urmări învârtindu-se pe o roată sau în jurul cozii. Aşa m-am bucurat şi eu, pentru fiecare suferinţă a mea, ca şi cum aş fi fost compusă din două persoane diferite — una pregătită să ia în derâdere orice greşeală a celeilalte. Mă amuzam pe seama mea, ca să nu plâng cu lacrimi amare că nu sunt alcătuită în întregime din părţi puternice, nealterabile.

Şi privind cu compasiune la toţi acei nefericiţi care îmi populau existenţa cu dezamăgirile lor şi poveşti din repertoriul lui am păţit-o şi eu, am uitat să privesc cu compasiune asupra mea. Să îmi fiu aliat şi apărător, să-mi las tăria de caracter să-mi aline durerile, să-mi liniştească nervozitatea şi să-mi vindece rănile. Fără pic de milă față de slăbiciunile mele, cele care-mi înmoaie sufletul și mă netezesc, mi-am încrucişat braţele la piept în faţa tristeţii mele şi m-am lăsat să plâng, privindu-mă cu o mască de fier ce începea să-mi intre-n piele.

Iată-mă acum. Mă privesc ca şi cum aş privi o persoană dragă, de mult pierdută. Sunt năucită de a doua şansă primită şi parcă tot timpul ăsta nici n-a contat, m-a iertat şi mi-a şters cu buretele trecutul irosit în lipsa ei. Ţi s-a limpezit privirea, mi-a spus şoptit imaginea din oglindă.

Şi-aş fugi. Aş fugi în căutarea vieţii, exuberanţei, a poftei de viaţă; aş aduce-o până la mine şi aş forţa-o să rămână, cu riscul asumat ca celulele bolnave s-o piardă în scurtă vreme. Tot ce am e un drog puternic, halucinogen, care-mi va genera curaj şi inconştienţă suficentă — dragostea de viaţă.

Plouă prin ferestrele deschise ale camerelor şi zgomotul ploii îmi place. Se aude ceva din bucătărie și îmi amintesc că persoana asta frumoasă, pe care am înjosit-o până acum, căreia i-am sorbit înfrângerile ca pe încă o dovadă că dreptatea e de partea mea, mi-a pus un ceai de fructe la încălzit în ibric.



M colecționa suflete când l-am cunoscut, sau așa credea. Îi plăceau oamenii și vroia să-i păstreze, să le oprească zborul numai pentru el, să le prindă bucățile de aripi frânte, uscate pe un panou, pentru a le menține vii în ochii lui. Nu renunța la nici o iubire, așa că toate iubirile l-au părăsit. El le plângea lipsa și reconstituia episoade alb-negru în secolul vitezei. L-am privit cu drag și puțină empatie îmbătrânind pentru a-și ține frumosul în viață, chiar cu prețul propriei vieți. Am vrut să-l avertizez să n-o facă înainte de vreme, căci mai are mult timp de trăit cu el însuși. Însa M era fericit, datorită bucuriilor trecute, amintite, vestejite; pe M, fluturii lui l-au învățat să zboare, deși au trăit numai o zi.



Nu există nimic mai frumos decât oamenii, mi-ai mai spus.
Adu-ți aminte asta ori de câte ori te cuprinde ura.
Îmbrăţişează-i, zâmbeşte-le, dar nu te gândi mult la ei — îi vei păta cu imaginaţie bolnăvicioasă.
Nu-ţi fie teamă. Teama te îmbolnăveşte, te vindecă de fericire.
Susţine-le visele, fredonează melodiile care îţi trec prin minte, joacă-te şi râzi până îi molipseşti, frumoaso; şi ai surâs.

Iar eu am ştiut că vechile poveşti s-au terminat.
Nu ţi le-am spus niciodată şi nici nu e nevoie să o fac — se trădează singure prin fiecare cuvânt şi fiecare mişcare, iar tu le vezi chiar sub forma mea. Nu-mi asculţi întâmplările, dar îmi citeşti sufletul, iar în ochii tăi sunt frumoasă. Şi ai surâs.

Am un rânjet larg, provenit din atât de adânc din fiinţa mea încât mă umple de bucurie sinceră; lipsită de cauză, amestecată cu mine însămi, rătăcită printre celule, înrădăcinată în esenţă, dizolvată, imperceptibilă, uluitor de copleşitoare.



Îmbrăţişări fără rost, fără esenţă, care nu-şi au locul, nici timpul.
Nu-i nimic, ne place să ne jucăm cu reperele periculoase.
Chiar dacă ne va părea rău mai târziu.
Că le-am sfidat.
Şi că nu le mai sfidăm încă.

Aşa a început – încă o dată. Prin intensitate, curiozităţi şi indecizii. Încercări nereuşite de a mă face mai fericită, mai liberă, mai puternică decât eram, urmate de reveniri pe fondul unei închipuite durităţi emoţionale. Mă credeam tare şi intagibilă. Credeam că lucrurile vechi mă definesc deja şi nu mă mai oboseam cu noul. Nu-mi puteam închipui finalul; că aş putea pleca fără să revin. Că a fugi de tine și spre tine pot fi drumuri diferite.

Tot ceea ce mă făceai să simt mă amorţea, până când supradoza de senzaţii mă lăsa imună la toată viaţa din jurul meu. Rămâneai doar tu, şi eu uitam că lumea asta-i plină de drumuri şi posibiltăţi. Uitam că îmi pot canaliza energia oriunde, că e doar o problemă de alegere. Dar pentru alte drumuri şi posibilităţi nu aveam sentimente şi nici nu eram dispusă să dezvolt. A durat până am învăţat că viaţa e imprevizilă, nebună şi nepăsătoare. Că lumea nu se schimbă pentru noi.
Am avut impresia că voi reuşi să simplic totul de data asta.
Atunci te-ai ascuns în mintea ta şi m-ai uitat lângă tine încă o dată.
A fost un drum lung până înapoi de unde am plecat.


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