Fairytale gone tragic

De cativa ani ma obsedeaza o imagine. Este o imagine trista, distorsionata si incadrata in normele realitatii contemporane (sau cel putin asa am descris-o de fiecare data cand m-a intrebat cineva ce anume vad atunci cand o privesc).
Este o imagine trista, deprimanta as putea zice, tocmai datorita faptului ca pare smulsa din realitate. Un paparazzi rabdator a asteptat sa vada ce se intampla dupa acel moment feeric in care cei doi pornesc calare spre mult prea mediatizatul apus, sau dimpotriva, a refuzat sa dea crezare povestilor raspandite de babutele visatoare din fata portilor si a cautat in arhiva video a barurilor de pe vremea "Cenusaresei".
Hai sa fim seriosi, faza cu "au trait fericiti pana la adanci batraneti" incepe sa scartaie inca de cand ii este mentionat numele pentru prima data. Este primul semn ca soarta ii este potrivnica.
Sa ne concentram un pic. Exista un singur "Fat-Frumos" (pentru aceasta ipoteza nu ar trebui sa sarim prea departe de realitate, un singur hop, ca sa zic asa).
Dar daca tot o facem, hai sa o facem cum trebuie, sa nu care cumva sa se rascoleasca prea tare ,raposatii plini de imaginatie, prin morminte cand vor auzi ca le-au fost adaptate povestile la tristul cotidian ce ne devoreaza existenta.
Bun ... A fost odata ca niciodata, intr-o galaxie indepartata (la naiba, incurc povestile), intr-un tinut indepartat (acum parca am inceput mai bine)  un print frumos, vartos si independent (nu, nu era ungur) caruia ii venise vremea insuratorii. Avea nevoie de o printesa frumoasa, blanda cu supusii si buna la inima ca painea proaspat scoasa din vatra.
Cum a dat de veste in lung si in lat ca-si cauta printesa, cum au aparut imparatii la usa, care mai de care cu oferte mai bune. Acum nu trebuia decat sa aleaga dupa bunul sau plac dupa rigoaroasa ceremonie din cadrul castingului (la naiba, iar am schimbat povestea) balului regal.
Frumoase din toate cele 4 colturi ale lumii si-au facut aparitia, una mai alba sau mai somnoroasa decat cealalta. Alaiul de printese era cu adevarat impresionant in ochii printului, daramite in modestii ochi azurii ai "Cenusaresei" ce matura constant pragul casei., privind cu jind spre trasurile brodate cu matasuri de care auzise doar in povesti.
Si cum statea eroina noastra fain frumos pe prispa casutei, tragand dintr-o tigara rulata cu tutun ieftin, planul se contura din ce in ce mai bine, din ce in ce mai clar.
Si uite asa, toate panglicile  albastre din tinut ce anuntau fastuosul eveniment au fost stranse, taiate, modelate si cusute intr-o rochie demna de o persoana prin a carui vine curge un sange regal.
Rochia era gata imbracata, caruta vecinului de la 4 strazi mai incolo fusese transformata si ea in mod miraculos intr-o sareta de toata frumusetea (in intuneric si de la departare), acum nu mai lipsea decat sa gaseasca o modalitate de a-si azvarli CV-ul impopotonat in teancul impresionant ce domnea langa tronul printului. Nici nu a fost verbalizata complet dorinta eroinei noastre ca tanti Zana de la curatenie a si luat bucatica firava de hartie ce ducea o lipsa grava de recomandari credibile si a plecat spre palat pentru a mai construi o treapta pe scara firava a ascensiunii iobagiei catre stapani.
 Planul mergea ca uns (pacat ca nu cu ulei dinala bun). Acum viitorul Cenusaresei, unica ei sansa de a-si schimba numele ponosit , atarna de decizia lui "Fat-Frumos" (care intre noi fie vorba, fara photoshop nu era chiar atat de frumos).
In vreme ce printesele isi etalau calitatile pe ringul de dans, eroul povestii noastre scrunta CV-urile, cantarindu-si optiunile, incercand sa ia o decizie (in jumatate de ora incepea finala europenelor, astfel timpul era pretios).
Eh, acum e acum ... acum urmeaza partea cea mai interesanta din poveste, partea in care printul isi da seama ca "Cenusareasa" este cea mai buna alegere pe care o poate face. Toata lumea e fericita, "Cenusareasa" pentru ca devine printesa, "Fat-Frumos" pentru ca va avea copii frumosi (si nu datorita genelor lui), restul oamenilor din imparatie care vor fi condusi pentru prima oara de o persoana care ii intelege si ....
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.................................................................................................... Nu, serios acum, chiar va gandeati ca asa se va termina povestea noastra???
Ei bine, eu cred ca imaginile vorbesc de la sine.

Singura concluzie rationala pe care o putem trage din acest basm adaptat este ca  visele ce nu pornesc de la o baza concreta si realizabila se pot transforma in orice secunda in fumul dens dintr-o bodega uitata de lume si timp, pe cand munca si determinarea au finalitati palpabile aproape intotdeauna .... Pe romaneste ... macar a ramas cu rochia.

??????????

Sus, jos, si mai jos, din ce in ce mai jos, sus din nou si apoi abis.

Suna cunoscut? Cam asa arata traseul fericirii ce-l putem regasi in gps-urile vietii moderne. Din ce in ce mai putini oameni sunt fericiti si raman fericiti. Au ramas atat de putini cei care pot declara, cu mana pe inima faptul ca sunt fericiti, incat ar putea fi stransi intr-o rezervatie, undeva intr-un parc national , imprejmuiti de garduri inalte prin care monstrul depresiei sa nu poata nici privi. Ar exista ghizi turistici care ar povesti despre fericire si simptomele acesteia si o gramada de turisti japonezi cu camerele pregatite, doar doar ar prinde o fotografie cu aceasta specie uluitoare, pe cale de disparitie, "omul fericit".
Multi dintre noi, daca nu chiar majoritatea, s-au intrebat la un moment dat in viata "ce @*&&& e fericirea?". Pe cat de multe intrebari puse, pe atat de multe coate ridicate. Pai daca nu stim ce este, atunci de ce mai aspiram la ea (am putea foarte bine sa ne intrebam). Ei bine, pentru ca fericirea, cel putin in zilele noastre a devenit un fel de fruct oprit, marul lui Adam cu polaritate inversata, musti o data si devii fericit.
Ha, de ar fi atat de simplu!

Adrenalinic

Cineva drag mi-a zis ca fiecare sfarsit este un inceput, orice granita nu este un sfarsit de tara, ci un inceput de alta, tarmul nu este sfarsitul uscatului ci inceputul libertatii si un drum infundat nu este decat o sansa de a descoperi un alt traseu, poate mai bun, poate mai plin de sleauri si cuie. Tot de la el am invatat ca imprevizibilul este sarea si piperul vietii, adrenalina este cel mai puternic drog si o prietenie nu se masoara doar in rasete.

“Omul cat traieste, invata”, spune un dicton celebru, pe cand altul afirma cu tarie ca “toti oamenii sunt egali”. Este ironic cum aceste doua fraze sunt perfect antitetice.  Nu exista egalitate, cel putin, nu in scoala vietii. Pe parcursul timpului am invatat asta, am invatat ca cei care invata din greseli detin o mina de aur, cei care invata din greselile altora detin una din diamant. Este pacat ca avem cu totii munti de diamante la picioare, dar nu le culegem, suntem incapatanati si stam desculti si infometati in paraul rece culegand din cand in cand un firicel de aur pe care poate reusim sa-l azvarlim in desaga sau poate il scapam inapoi in torentul rapid si inghetat care ameninta sa ne inghita, uitand de el la fel de repede precum l-am gasit.

Dar sa revenim la urcusuri, la coborasuri, la sleauri si la cuie. In ultima perioada am observat ca daca ii dai fast forward, viata este un traseu enduro. Pleci la drum nestiind ce te asteapta, ai o harta pe care sa te ghidezi in linii mari si e plin de necunoscut si imprevizibil. Daca mergi incet si safe vezi multe, dar nu simti nicio clipa focul adrenalinei uscandu-ti gatul, inclestandu-ti degetele pe acceleratie, fortandu-te sa te autodepasesti, sa ajungi primul, sa fii cineva. Daca tii totul la o viteza mica, totul se desfasoara la o viteza mica, dealul de pe partea stanga va fi acolo si a doua, si a treia oara cand te uiti, vantul nu este altceva decat o briza de care oricum nu te poti bucura din cauza echipamentului de protectie care atarna ca o povara pe umerii tai si te incorseteaza, te limiteaza. Dar daca mergi “safe” ajungi “safe” la destinatie. Dar, ajungi printre ultimii, poate povestile cele mai bune au fost deja imprastiate de briza molcoma, si nu te deranjeaza foarte tare, pentru ca oricum tu nu erai o parte din nisipul aruncat in vant. Ajungi safe, ajungi toropit de caldura, ajungi obosit si mergi la culcare. Ce-i drept va exista intotdeauna un zambet melancolic in coltul gurii, o amintire a fotografiei facute popandaului de la mijlocul traseului sau a vulturului care plana deasupra ta cand rulai usor si safe pe liziera padurii. Dar atat, e un zambet melancolic si o usoara tristete in oftatul semi-constient ce preceda alunecarea usoara in lumea viselor.

Pe de alta parte exista cei care sunt alimentati de adrenalina, cei care arunca un ochi pe harta inainte de a incaleca si dau gaz. Aceia simt fiorul adrenalinei, simt ca traiesc la maxim, sleaul pe care tu l-ai ocolit pentru ca prezenta un risc de accidentare, ei l-au sarit, sau poate au cazut incercand sa treaca direct prin el, sporind nivelul adrenalinei, sporind senzatia efemera de nemurire, sporindu-le increderea, devenind mai mari in ochii lor si ai celorlalti. Dar ei in frenezia vitezei si a cautarii de adrenalina poate calca popandaul, poate vulturul este doar o pata neagra prinsa cu coltul ochiului sau poate nu a fost deloc. Ei traiesc in si pentru viteza si pierd frumusetea din jur in favoarea adrenalinei, in favoarea sentimentului intens  de “viata”, sentiment care se hiperbolizeaza in momentul in care ajung si rup banda de sosire sau macar urca pe podium, se mareste si se intensifica in momentul in care se aseaza la masa dupa un traseu lung  si cu urme pregnante de adrenalina in sange petrec pana in zori cand se intind in pat sfarsiti, dar cu un zambet de o satisfactie monumentala pe buze,

Stiind toate aceste nu poti decat sa stai sa te intrebi care este varianta cea mai buna?  Daca ai de ales intre doua extreme, pe care o alegi? Vrei sa simti ca traiesti sau vrei sa traiesti pur si simplu? E o alegere dificila, mult mai dificila decat pare initial.

Da, raspunsul multora va fi ca exista intotdeauna o solutie de mijloc, dar o solutie de mijloc in cazul acesta, in cazul vietii, este denumita  in termeni “populari”, mediocritate. Poate sunt un om al extremelor, dar acest cuvant mi s-a parut intotdeauna terifiant. Mediocritatea merge mana in mana cu comformismul si gregarismul. Cand anume te opresti sa admiri campul de grau incoltit intesat cu maci sangerii si cand anume ii dai gaz si pierzi caprioara care alearga in tandem cu tine printre copacii de la liziera? Solutia de mijloc este intradevar mai usoara, mai accesibila, intesata cu de toate, dar plina de riscuri si de esecuri. Poti alege calea de mijloc si sa pierzi totul, sa te pierzi pe tine in multimea ignoranta care ba se opreste, ba alearga ca si cum nimic sau totul este de pierdut sau poti sa cazi intr-o extrema. Oricum ar fi este terifiant. Oricum ar fi trebuie sa nu uiti nicio secunda de tine, de ceea ce doresti tu sa faci si sa te bazezi pe tine si capacitatea ta de a-ti repara singurul motorul, de puterea de a face singur traseul de a decide momentele de liniste si momentele de “span”, ca intr-un final cand te asezi sau te prapadesti in pat sa ai un zambet plin de satisfactie, de melancolie, de implinire.

Si nu in ultimul rand, niciodata, dar niciodata sa nu-ti incredintezi intraga rezerva de benzina cuiva care crezi ca te va acompania pe tot parcursul traseului, pentru ca nu vei sti niciodata cand vei ramane singur in mijlocul campului, sub soarele dogoritor, abandonat, gol si neputincios.

Coffee and reality

"At the end we only stop to think at the old saying “every beginning has it’s end” … that’s who we are, lovers and supporters of reality when it strikes us hard and when we least expect it. When we’re in the middle of something good we live up in the sky, “everything is possible if you only try”, “there is no impossible, the word itself says I’m possible”, but then, when we are at our best, when we see the top of the mountain, when it takes another step or two to fix the flag and call ourselves conquerors, reality strikes, it pokes us like a cobra hidden in the evergreen of Eden, and then we do what we know best, we lift our shoulders (filled with reality and judgment, late as always) and we just say “every beginning has it’s end” and then … we move on by creating the very well-known scenarios  “ WHAT IF?”

Our problem is not that we are not able to think, to search within the fragile files of “reality” when we start dreaming, our problem is that we cannot hit the “pause button” to take a deep breath of reality before sinking back into the thick smoke of dreams.

Let’s admit it, when the coffee is perfect, you drink it to the last drop, without pouring some more to risk ruining the taste. It’s exactly as in real life. The story is perfect, why try to find something that could ruin it, the dream is sweet, why should you wake up when it’s Sunday and the alarm clock is hidden in the last drawer?

Let’s say that we prefer to drink the coffee to the last drop (yes we do hope that it will never finish, that we are the lucky ones that got the magical cup that never leaves the coffee to end) when we finish it, why do we adopt the “oh well, it eventually had to finish” attitude. It’s ok in the end if we just throw the cup in the sink and get started on a brand new day, but no, we linger. The question is why do we linger on that empty cup hoping that we could find a last drop somewhere. It takes us a minute or two to realize that the coffee is gone and that the day is at it’s very beginning, that we have to get up and start it with a big smile on our face. The coffee was perfect and it fulfilled it’s purpose, it gave us energy to START ANOTHER DAY.

That short period of time that we waste until we remember ourselves that it’s morning is a slow murder to the soul. Day by day we waste minutes, and they gather up, bit by bit, and we find ourselves old and thinking we could have had at least a month of smiles if we hadn’t wasted them on lingering.

That’s why when the dream ends, when IT ends, we don’t have to think that it was meant to and analyze the factors that lead to the unavoidable end, but smile and say that every beginning do has it’s end, and not forget the fact that every beginning or ending is followed by other beginnings and endings. It’s the normal circle of life, I guess. Complicated? Yes it is! Because we are used to waking up from time to time, and we are comfortable with the idea of staying in bed for a couple of more minutes to remember the dream we had, and maybe to try to leap back in it for a few more moments.

NO! the alarm goes off, screw the dream, we have another fresh new day to start. We’ll have plenty of time to try to remember it when we go back to sleep. Just think about the advantages."

-Another perfect lie for the consumers, I said while sending my last article to the magazine. I only wonder when will come the time when I'll actually believe in what I write, or at least try to take into consideration my own sane advices ...

I'm sorry, I'm rude, we haven't met yet. I'm an ordinary girl, living an ordinary life, in a more then ordinary town. The only thing that makes a difference between me and all the other ordinary people that surround me is the fact that today I decided to make a difference, to make a statement, to tell you a little story, a story about a girl that I once knew.

Once upon a time, in another life She lived and really enjoyed it. She was considered a pretty, naive little girl that knew nothing about the world she was living in or about the earthquake that will soon shatter the perfectly boring tranquility she was living in. It all started with a CHANGE, a new beginning. Some people call it the permanent stain of color on the painted veil of life, other people call it the true sensation of life, I call it a dragonfly with an acute death wish, if you care for my opinion, but let's continue with the story.

She knew nothing about love, about suffering, about any real emotion until the day She met Him. A wonderful story, with delightful adventures and an Austen sent, it's a shame for the Shakespearian ending. They lived and breathed for each other, they were the lost myth of the androgen. Friends told them they looked alike, the happily dove couples in the park fainted when they strolled around, hand in hand, with a shared joy of the little small things that defined their perfect togetherness.

The air stanched of a little chrysalis "but" that waited softly to bloom into a grand "what if" butterfly. "When everything is going right, there must be something deeply wrong" an old saying emerged into their douse minds. That's when the doubt came in, that's when they stopped living the moment and started analyzing the future, that's when the "but" came in.

Dreadful little creatures the "but" and the "what if". They work hand in hand like coffee and a cigarette, like Bonnie and Clyde, like Batman and Robin, what the hell am I saying, like the Joker and Two-Face. The first one is the "but" he's like a seed of “ergot de siècle”, prospering in our mind and soul, ultimately bringing plague and destruction. It’s like the “but” is the sneaky Devil that, as he was strolling around in the garden of Eden, watching Adam and Eve loving each other, being happy in their miserable innocence, decided to take some action and convince the naïve little Eve to take a bite from the sour apple of reality. And then after you pen your eyes, after you get hit by the glacy shards of reality that pokes you, millions of pieces per second, you submerge yourself into an ocean of fake calm, wondering, pondering, “what if?”. They go hand in hand like a fire and menthol calming gel. There could not be one without the other, always in the same order, always there to strike like a cobra at an anniversary picnic.

So, there They were, happy together, until the “but” came in. it was like a bite from an old dog that you fed for more than fifteen years, unexpected and hurtful. The moment the “but” decided to ruin everything, was the moment they pushed their invisible self-destruction button. Neither She or Him told each other what they did, but slowly, inside their brain and heart, the “but” worm grew bigger and bigger, feeding on their weak human emotions, feeding on their energy, feeding on them.

After a few months of torture they finally came to the point where the “but” should have naturally occurred. After tormenting their sleep, and torturing themselves with a sadistic urge of emotional self-destruction, they realized all of it was in vain. They wasted precious time on scenarios that could have put the “but” to sleep, that they forgot that “carpe diem” was not just a silly little latin saying that was handy when in need of a prompt advice. So there they were, hungry for each other, with only one decision to make. Is it fight or flight?

Choice, a miserable little action we’re forced into from time to time. It may seem neutral, but if you look into it, you’ll see it’s filled with darkness. In a life filled with light we never have to choose, we just go where our steps take us. But a choice was imperious, and both of them had to embrace it. Sadly, they did.

“I want you to promise me that you will never let me go!” That’s what She used to tell Him, laying in bed, while He gently caressed her face. Now that image haunted Her, every step she took. Every breath was an image, like an old film that ruptures at one point and shows the same scene over and over again, until it goes black. “Never let me go!”

“God, our love is snuff, and weirdly, we have to do it, we have to kill it, kill each other in our hearts so that we could move on” She said to Him, while tears dropped furiously on their joined hands.

“yes, it’s our best option, if we don’t do it, we will never be able to let go”, He replied, eyes closed, teeth clenched, so that the tears that threatened like a hurricane, won’t stop him from saying what he didn’t meant.

And so, they mutually decided to kill each other in their souls, so that their lives would go on. It was a joined decision, individually contested. They both went on their own paths. That was the last day that they saw each other, that was the real time of their death, one to another, and individually.

Her last memory of Him, of Them, was a kiss in the summer rain that was pouring over their bodies as a last, much to discrete, sign. They should have known that the rain wasn’t there to wash away their tears, but their decision.

Sometimes, we understand the signs with our heart, but our brain refuses to cope. Sometimes, and only when we should really function as an well-oiled machine, our brain gets clouded with power, takes the name of the supreme dictator and ignores the murmur of the heart that demands for the right to vote. That usually happens in doubt. When in doubt, we feed our brain with possibilities and make our heart be still for a second. That’s when the brain feels that he has total control, and it enjoys that so much that he decides to ignore the heart and take a risk in the decision-making Jeopardy.

They both knew, deep down that that was the worse decision ever made, but the brain celebrated so loudly his individuality, also known as objective thinking, that the riot of the heart was considered just a side-effect of the painful procedure they were going through.

Time went by, She managed to live her dream, to be where she wanted, where she pictured herself as a small child. Only few things were quite wrong, quite not-planned. For example, She always pictured herself as more of a “at-the-scene” reporter, rather than a boring columnist. But that’s what brings the money, that’s what she’s perfect at, at this particular time in her life. She writes a weekly column at a well-known women magazine. She’s objective, accurate, heartless and always right. She’s the kind of person that everybody wants to call when in need of an advice. She’s almost famous, living an almost-perfect life. WRONG! And nothing could be more wrong. She is good at writing and giving those emotionless advices because sour is the only emotion she has left besides emptiness. She’s a robot, spilling on paper lies that make her laugh at the very moment she types them, telling people what they want to hear. It’s a good self-preservation mechanism. Too bad that she lost her soul while trying to protect it.

As I said at the beginning of this little story, today is all about making a statement. And, even though She’s a girl of many words, even though I tend to lose myself in pointless (or not) details, the statement that wanted to escape from the icy cold soul that trapped it many years ago, like Prometheus wants to escape his forever painful chains, is exactly the same word that describes the perfect little lie in which she lives in, WRONG!

She/I, was wrong for thinking with my brain instead of my heart, for choosing a cheesy unhappy ending for a perfectly happy relationship. Life is not written neither by Shakespeare nor Austen. We paint our own veil, and we can choose any color we want, we adopt any style we think is suited for the moment. We mix them, we copy them, we create them. It’s all up to us. And that’s an advice that I, myself, hadn’t but will take into consideration from now on!

Publish/ Cancel. Those are the options we have after writing something that grew inside us like cupcakes in an oven. After all of it is out, on the white screen, looking back at us, we have to decide weather the cupcakes go to the store or remain in the kitchen to feed ourselves.

“Maybe it’s time I went on a diet”, she giggled while pressing the button.

What’s the best friend a person could have when that person is a social robot that reacts like any other human beings, except for the moments where all the people crawl away to mind their own pitiful lives and that person remains by itself, shedding the social-built armor and remaining naked, vulnerable, exposed?

The answer, if you haven’t gave it yet, is alcohol. In Her case, a big, juicy, fruit-flavored glass of wine. So after pushing the button, she finished her glass of rose, put out the Marlboro filter that burned her fingers and went to sleep. Why bother shutting down the computer, she’ll wake up thinking about another specie of “lie seed” to be planted into a Word document. She’ll help it grow as the week passes by, so at the end of it, another wave of hungry readers will be fed.

The sheets smell divine, their texture wraps around her body like the silk used to spoil a Hindu princess. Sleep was about to take her into his unpredictable embrace, when a familiar sound startled her.

“You’ve got mail!”

It’s funny how a little everyday thing can create such a fuss in our guts when we did something out of the ordinary.

“it’s just a spam, or a reply from an eager reader”, She said to herself while hopping it’s just another white line on her gray veil. But sleep just fainted away, living her wondering on the fields of curiosity in her bed formed now by pointy, little nails.

Curiosity is a constant itch that cannot be ignored. No matter how many calming thoughts you feed to it, trying to suppress it, it always passes with a simple scratch. She knew that well, so, she decided to go check the e-mail that startled her fragile sleep.

“I never was a big fan of coffee, but, reality doesn’t win the prize either. You, on the other hand … I could never get enough off.

H”

She felt her eyes weird, like they were experiencing a long forgotten feeling. It was raining in the desert, but the drops were both salty and sweet.

CHOICE once again took over. Unpredictable, mad, life full dangers or safe numbness? Reply or delete?

The problem was that the numbness disappeared at the sight of the sender. Butterflies invaded not only her stomach, but the entire room. The heart was struggling for the right to make the decision. But how can anyone make a decision when objectivity is a town in China.

Her robotic senses started to wake up, to calm her, to bring back the columnist that she created. She poured another glass of wine, lighted another cigarette, closed her eyes, and started to think(with both her heart and brain). It was time to make a good decision for herself, for a chance.

Little colored butterflies named if and maybe flew around her taking her both to Heaven and Hell.

She finished her wine, opened her eyes widely, straightened her back, and with a trace of a long lost grin that is commonly named a “smile”, she pushed the button.

Aleatoriile unui ateu

   Alerg, campia intinsa parca ma imbie sa fug din ce in ce mai repede. Alerg, scap, evadez, sunt plina de adrenalina si parca durerea se scurge cu fiecare fir de iarba zdrobit in furia fugii mele. Alerg si ma indrept spre necunoscut. Alerg si ar trebui sa ma opresc, stiu ca TREBUIE sa ma uit in jur, sa ma orientez, sa fac un plan, dar NU POT, alerg si fuga ma elibereaza, imi descatuseaza bratele sa pot simti iarasi senzati de bine. Alerg!

Dar cum toate au un sfarsit, fuga mea se pierde usor intr-un mers plin de angoasa. Cum am ajuns in padure? Cand a disparut soarele puternic ce ma mangaia, imi oferea caldura, liniste, bine? Cand au disparut floricelele frumos mirositoare ce-mi mangaiau fuga in delicata lor existenta statornica? Cand am patruns in acest taram intunecat, plin de umbre care se strecoara pana in adancul sufletului meu, sporind angoasa, fugarind binele ca si cum ar fi un intrus colorat intr-o lume sufocata de nuante de gri? Cand s-a transformat atingerea lina a ierbii proapete intr-un torent de lovituri usturatoare a crengilor uscate?

Ma impleticesc in radacini si trunchiuri, simt cum pielea imi este crestata de crengile ce atarna amenintator in jurul meu, parca incercand sa creeze o bariera de durere fizica intre trupul meu deja istovit si ceea ce poate in curand va fi un luminis de bine in mijlocul torturii, as vrea sa alerg, dar nu mai pot. Sunt condamnata sa strabat aceasta inchisoare macabra in pas marunt, usor. Daca alerg acum nu ma voi mai putea opri niciodata, si niciodata suna atat de aproape in acest caz …

Este greu drumul prin padure, pasii mi se afunda in noroiul rece, cu grija si teama de a nu fi inghititi la urmatoarea miscare gresita. Este frig si este intuneric, dar continui sa merg, continui sa primesc cu stoicism loviturile crengilor, sunt convinsa ca acesta nu este un mars sisific iar capatul curcubeului este intotdeauna la marginea intunericului.

Sunt pierduta, singura, mi-e frig si MI-E FRICA! Ma impiedic de un trunchi, noroiul glacial imi ofera o imbratisare lacoma. Simt pentru o secunda ca mi-e bine, sunt prea obosita sa mai pot continua iar masa neagra si densa a inceput sa ma cuprinda incetul cu incetul. Curand voi deveni una cu padurea.

NU! Trebuie sa ma ridic! Mainile imi sunt amortite iar picioarele grele ca de plumb. O durere covarsitoare imi strabate coloana cand incerc sa ma misc. e al naibii de greu, dar ma lupt si reusesc.

A inceput o ploaie deasa. Picaturile mici si reci ma lovesc in fata cu o furie oarba. Simt ca-mi croiesc loc printr-o rafala de gloante de gheata. Nu m-au doborat inca, imi tarai cu ultimii stropi de putere carcasa golita si invinetita spre liziera padurii. Poate ca totusi firul slab si luminos ce se intrezareste este cu adevarat o cale de iesire din iadul verde, umed si apasator ce incearca sa ma inghita cu fiecare miscare pe care o fac.

Ce faci atunci cand ajungi la destinatie dupa un drum covarsitor si iti este frica sa faci ultimul pas? Iti este frica de liniste, de bine? Te gandesti ca poate umbra padurii iti era un prieten mai de nadejde, era mai greu, dar nu erai in camp deschis, in bataia directa a pustii, nu trebuia sa infrunti totul cu pieptul inainte, te puteai ascunde cu usurinta, facandu-te nevazut, ducand o existenta de umbra.

Inghet! Se aude un fosnet, un marait. Intorc capul si o pereche de ochi galbeni ma privesc cu interes. Fata este schimonosita intr-un rictus ciudat. Lupii pot zambi?

Deodata simt cum sangele incepe iar sa-mi curga prin veche, sa goneasca cu sute de kilometri la ora, alungand apatia in torentul nebun de adrenalina. Membrele imi sunt iarasi usoare si simt ca pot fugi iarasi. Alerg! Lacrimile imi siroiesc pe obraji, adrenalina hranindu-ma, alintandu-ma cu dulceata ei ca o mama reunita cu copilul ratacit.

Plutesc! Pamantul se termina brusc! Marginea prapastiei era ascunsa in desisul colorat si vesel de fructe otravitoare. Cad! Apa!

E o senzatie ciudata. Simti ca totul in jurul tau te apasa, simti ca nu mai exista nimic de care sa te poti agata, esti intr-o deriva totala, si totusi, simti ca esti stapan. Atunci cand pierzi controlul, atunci cand esti mai neajutorat decat o samanta de papadie in bataia vantului, atunci cand greutatea enorma a cascadei se metamorfozeaza intr-o liniste descarceranta a lacului, atunci, pentru cateva moment, simti ca traiesti. E pacat ca prezentul se transforma in trecut inainte ca firul de nisip sa atinga fundul clepsidrei, e pacat ca simti ca traiesti cu adevarat si in secunda in care constientizezi acest lucru, simti déjà ca ai trait. E un moment atat de scurt si atat de frumos pe langa care noaptea Valpurgiei ar parea doar un festival plictisitor.

E ciudat cum astepti o viata sa-ti incepi viata si in ultimele secunde realizezi ca timpul petrecut in sala de asteptare nu a fost altceva decat timp pierdut asteptand sa plece trenul tau, tren care a plecat de mult, a plecat fara sa stii, fara sa te anunte cineva  de la ce linie sau la ce ora pleaca, a plecat siret, a plecat incet, dar a plecat.

E uimitoare relativitatea timpului, mai ales atunci cand ultimul graunte de nisip se indreapta vertiginous spre gatul subtire al clepsidrei. Cade! Cade incet pentru ca in comformismul sau gravitational cade in golul amintirilor, trairilor, a regretelor si a remuscarilor, pare un veac, o calatorie lunga care i-ar starni invidia lui Magellan. Cade repede, pentru ca adrenalina este un combustibil mai puternic decat orice tip de kerosen. Cade si nu exista nicio plasa, nicio bariera, nimic care sa-l poata opri. Cade!

Liniste! Calm! As fi rasuflat usurata daca nu ar fi fost tot acest volum de apa care ma apasa din toate partile. Pana si focul din plamani s-a stins, s-au resemnat. Intr-o viata plina de resemnare era urmatorul pas firesc. Pana si instinctul animalic de supravietuire s-a domolit si s-a impacat cu inceputul sfarsitului. Arde! Dar intr-un mod placut. E cald si simt ca zbor, plutesc deasupra fimului vietii mele. Frica! Daca deschid ochii se va opri? Albastru! E un ocean de culoare. Nu m-am gandit niciodata ca albastrul poate avea atatea nuante. Remuscari! Am trait inconjurata de frumos, dar am ales sa vad grotescul. Regret! Au fost atatea clipe de izolare, de depresie, de falsitate si un teatru absurd al vietii. Ma puteam bucura de lucrurile gratuite care aduc linstea, fericirea. Iluminare! O gura de aer este o obisnuinta. Ar fi frumos sa ma mai pot bucura acum de un ultimo ciclu respirator. Libertate! Plutesc, sunt un fir de papadie in bataia vantului. Fericire! SFARSIT!