Franturi


In sfarsit un articol in romana, ar putea spune unii. Pentru mine, este o mare bataie de cap sa scriu astfel. Exceptand diacriticele, pe care nu le-as putea folosi  nici daca as avea mai mult timp sau inspiratie, este ciudat sa vezi ce ton personal iau frazele atunci cand sunt redactate in limba materna. Poate faptul ca am scris in engleza pana acum a fost doar o incercare de a nu ma destainui cu totul, de a ma ascunde de mine si de adevar.

Lasand astfel de probleme efemere la o parte, trebuie sa marturisesc ca ma simt ridicol sa fiu pus in ipostaza de a fi incapabil sa scriu ceva cat de cat inteligent. Daca pana acum au fost plasmuiri ale imaginatiei mele, permise de un subterfugiu constituit de alta limba, imposibilitatea redactarii unui post cu adevarat semnificativ ma zdrobeste.

Departe de mine tentatia de a spune ca pana acum ceva din ceea ce am scris a avut vreun inteles. Dar oare nu este cuvantul “ratiune” impropriu? Oare nu este ratiunea noastra de fapt o notiune inefabila? Pornind de la aceasta logica, de ce nu as scrie indescifrabil, atat timp cat insusi acest proces explica “rationalul”?

Poate scopul acestei opacitati a stilului este frustrarea de a nu fi ocupat cu ceva mai complex in realitate. Aceleasi activitati cotidiene, intrerupte rareori de evenimente iesite din comun. Cand stai prea mult timp intr-un loc ajungi la saturatie. Orice mi s-a parut la un moment dat interesant este acum banal, prea impregnat cu duhul blestemat al obisnuintei. Cu putine exceptii, nimic nu imi trezeste interesul cum as vrea sa o faca. Demult, in vremea in care ignorantei mele ii tinea locul inflacararea, incepusem sa imi constientizez angoasa si sa o repudiez.  Acum m-am impacat cu ea.Si inca nu stiu care este mai trista , vointa fara putere, sau puterea fara vointa.

“Dormea intors amorul meu de plumb..” – George Bacovia, “Plumb”

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Nothingness


Nothing can ever be achieved without sedulousness. We have to try as hard as we can to obtain something we desire. Nonetheless, this does not mean that we should be subject to obstinacy. Sometimes it’s better to let go of your erroneous ideas, although you may have a propensity for doing the opposite.

But what do I waste my time with these meaningless phrases? What possible purpose could such abstruse writing have? I’m supposed to write comprehensible and likeable, aren’t I? Then why do I feel that I can’t recognize myself in that? I am not searching for an answer, for I do not need one. There is no such thing as an aswer to a question which is desultory from the start.

Perhaps I will never be able to understand myself.  And how could I, taking into consideration the fact that we human beings are susceptible to changing? Everytime I think I know what my essence is, I have to deal with the fact that I have already change whilst making that assumption.

Maybe it is not sad that I do not know who I am, maybe it is my complacency towards finding this which is the issue. Definetely, this is why I am impervious to self-doubt. My own disdain for discovering myself is the nourishment for my hubris. Oh, caring, where are you when I need you most?

“And one fine morning – so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past . ” -F. S. Fitzgerald , “The Great Gatsby”

Art, only art…


Nietzche stated that “We have art so that we do not perish of truth” and undoubtedly the one who is remembered mostly for effectively killing god could not have been wrong.

We live in a loathsome reality, surrounded by people who fail to understand us, since they equally cannot comprehend who they are. And what had art been at its beginnings if not the depiction of what people thought a utopian world would look like? We are subject to failure, to death, to harms of body and mind and we are still reluctant to accept our transient condition.

But still, we are able to define the nature of our own existence. Albeit there is no meaning to be found in the world beyond what meaning we give to it ( for further reference, read Albert Camus’ “Myth of Sisyphus”), we are at least provided with this opportunity. We can decide who we want to be and it seems logical that we try anything in order to achieve our state. Nevertheless, our complacency lead to nothing more than a state of confusion in which we tend to blame the others for our failure.

Perhaps what I have just mentioned looks like prevaricating, but the truth is that it reiterates my initial statement. Providing that in this world  we have to face anguish, anxiety and related feelings incessantly, what exit can we have except art? It is our only means of salvation, it is what keeps us going. Be it not ubiquitous, as it is, and it would still be of paramount importance for every human being.

Art, only art…

“If all the world were clear, art would not exist.” (Albert Camus)


There is something in the air which announces the demise of everything that is obsolete, of everything that belongs no more to the present day. Peculiar, isn’t it, taking into consideration the fact that autumn is generally thought of as a season of alteration.  Regardless of such misconceptions, I regard autumn as a new beginning. To what extent this is correct is inextricably linked to our conceptions, albeit I can ascertain a pattern, or at least try to.

Despite my apparent arrogance, which seemed to try to treat others’ thoughts as common patterns, this is not my intention. Instead, I try to focus on myself, with little hope to catch a glimpse of others’ feelings. I cannot be sensible enough to connect with people. I might have had this quality at one point, but certain events changed everything. But that’s not what this is about. My digression may resemble a poor procrastination, but in fact it’s only my self-esteem trying to repudiate the very process of expressing myself.

According to what I stated in the beginning, I regard autumn as a season of change, of forgetting the past and focusing on the future or at least on the present. Perhaps this is due to important changes in my life in the past occurring this season. Maybe it’s my lugubrious side talking, but I feel comfortable witnessing the perishing nature. I am “endowed” with a nefarious ability to be careless in front of such alteration. I am thrilled to see how the old things are replaced by new things, I am eager to discover what lies in front of me. I do not deny the fact that the past is important, but I leave it behind. And I do this mostly during this season, because there is something in the morbid state of nature which leads me to that.

I have never claimed to be perfect. The old me might have said that at times, but I do not recognize him. He is dead for me,as it is the past in front of autumn. He is dead to me, for he never tried to accept what he really was. He tried to conform to what others imposed, he tried to be one of them. But I am now sure that I am not one of them. I am everything they hate, albeit my actions might not reflect this.  Whilst they put their hopes in the hands of a distant god, i put my faith in myself. I am not under the delusions of grandeur. Instead, I am conscious of my qualities, as well as of my drawbacks. I will be increasingly peculiar to them , for they will hate me for not be one of them. Words mentioned beforehand, but what can I do if there is no other means through which I could express this better? Perhaps the vocabulary should be “murdered” and a new one be introduced.

After all, it’s autumn…

“Majesties and virtues, love and blindness,

Righteous one! Dumber and more revolting still than a hunting bitch!

I am the one who suffers and who rebels against you!” Rimbaud, L’homme juste

New day in the old town