Fragment de autobiografie

Stau la ultimul etaj într-un bloc ultra
Dar nu mă invidiaţi, fraţilor,
am nimerit între doi locatari
care-mi fac numai zile negre:
Cel-de Sus uită mereu robinetul deschis
în cerul său
şi-mi inundă tristeţea care se tot umflă
precum parchetul;
Cel-de-Jos este şi mai ciudat:
Îmi bate în calorifer din te miri ce
de nu mai îndrăznesc să intru
nici măcar în istoria literară
de teamă să nu scârţâie cumva uşa
şi să-l deranjeze pe imbecil.

(Spiridon Popescu)

So if I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life's work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that.

If I ask you about women, you'd probably give me a syllabus about your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You're a tough kid.

And I'd ask you about war, you'd probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, "once more unto the breach dear friends." But you've never been near one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help.

I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much.

And look at you... I don't see an intelligent, confident man... I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you're a genius. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my fucking life apart.

You're an orphan, right? You think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally... I don't give a shit about all that, because you know what, I can't learn anything from you I can't read in some fuckin' book. Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I'm fascinated. I'm in. But you don't want to do that, do you, sport?

You're terrified of what you might say.

2004

Life [or something like it]

Maria: Cînd am plecat în fiecare seară voiam să ţi-o trag...
Acum sunt super-chill.

L-am prins pe Dumnezo' de dubstep.

"Orice om frumos este un om urat care a ramas singur." (N.S.)

via El mie: Cris!