Ma uit perplexa la ce scriam acum un an, doi si-mi vine sa- mi dau palme.
Si rad pentru ca unii au poze si eu am un blog. Am ales sa insemn negru pe alb intreg 'procesul meu de crestere si maturizare' - si-n prostia mea inca o fac.
Citesc niste commenturi, imi vine sa ma plesnesc peste fata. Si rad pentru ca unii faceau poze in timp ce eu scriam pe blog.
Incerc sa-mi amintesc ce-mi trecea prin cap ca si pe vremea aia eram 'dubioasa' si 'misterioasa' si daca da dracu sa-mi amintesc imi vine sa ma ridic de pe scaun si sa ies afara sa fumez o tigara. 
Mi-a zis frati-miu azi, proaspat absolvent de 12 clase, ca proasta-am fost din totdeauna doar ca acum parca vorbesc mai putin. Bine nu s-a exprimat chiar asa ca acuma e baiat finut.
I-am zis sa se duca in pizda masi si acuma parca m-as duce eu.
Nu indraznesc sa ma uit la ce scriam, la ce ziceam si mai ales la ce credeam acum -patru ani. Se zice ca la 16 ani tot ce zboara se mananca, numai ca la 16 ani crezi ca la asta se aplica cand aveai 14. Bai si fata fiind sa scrii tu asa ceva?!
Sa n-ai tu o rochie, o bijuterie o pereche de pantofi spoita pe blog?! Numa amor si ale tineretii valuri?! Numa tupeu si exprimari colocviale?! Numa aere de superioritate si iz de minte necoapta?! Numai gura spurcata si logoree?!
Tu fata fiind!
Si se mai trezeau cate unii sa-mi zica. De aia saracii mi-e mila ca uneori credeau ca vorbesc despre altceva la cat de 'dubioasa' si 'misterioasa' eram - si pe vremea aia.Da de mine mi-e si mai mila decat mi-e de ei ca le raspundeam. Pai sa tin eu fata mare gura inchisa?!(eu de-acum doi ani ar spune "ce-am dat-o p-asta! la mustata!")
Si rad ma, ca unii au poze si eu am blog.  Si vad cum lumea se schimba si noi tot asa ramanem. C-acolo e esenta! La 16 ani spuneai lucrurilor pe lume si tineai lumea in palma! Atunci stai de toate si-i scuipai pe toti in fata. La 20 pleci capu in semn de maturitate si intelepciune.
Alea vremuri! La 16 ani....

N-am mai scris de mult in limba  mea.
Dar cum sa scriu pe limba mea cand n-am mai plans de mult pe limba mea, nici n-am mai ras pe limba mea, nici n-am visat pe limba mea?! N-am obosit pe limbva mea, n-am injurat pe limba mea, n-am blestemat pe limba mea, nu m-am rugat pe limba mea.
Mi-am reconstruit viata pe-o limba straina, m-am indragostit pe-o limba straina, am facut bani pe-o limba straina. M-am 'reinventat' pe-o limba straina.
Am creat tot intr-o limba straina. Am pierdut si-asta tot pe-o limba straina. Si-atunci de ce n-as fi scris pe-o limba straina.
Cei ce n-au casa nu cunosc limba materna.
Cei ce nu prind radacini nu cunosc termenul de 'strain'.
Ce-i ce n-au ce pierde vand lumea pe nimic, dau totul pe praf si spoiesc cuvinte fara sens pe pereti.
Dau orgasme mintale si fac dragoste metafizica.
Spun lucruri pe care nu le cred si se hranesc cu iluzii.

N-am mai scris de mult in limba mea.

Every girl at least wishes she had childhood dramas.

There is illusion...

I sometimes ask people to tell me a story. Nothing more, just "tell me a story".
Some look at me queerly asking themselves while thinking out loud "why?". Some simply say no and sink back into their own self absorbing lies that they colloquially name 'life'. Some smile back and toss a patronising look that accompanies  an "I don't have any", thinking they've just told a white lie 'cause their stories are lived in a world far from human reach.
Some pause for a bit trying to figure me out, some thinking I'm trying to trick them into believing I'm out of this world.. Some look for meaning behind my words.
Some start telling me about stories they lived, some start telling me stories that they want to believe they've lived and some start telling me stories that they want me to believe they lived.
There are those that give me an excuse to compensate for incapacity. Some just give me an excuse and some promise they will one day.
No one ever told me a story.


 ...in waiting for things that you know will not come.

Tell me did you sail across the sun
Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded
And that heaven is overrated
Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star
One without a permanent scar
And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there

-Why did you start smoking, Ana?!
Moments like that, moments of what people call coincidence stopped frightening me a very long time ago. Not because I could understand, because I could believe. And I do not believe in coincidence. Intellectuals gazed at me while thinking : I pity the fool. I thought the same - difference is I said it! When you're not an intellectual you don't fear to speak your mind. Intellectuals call it small talk, ignorance, stupidity even. I call it 'saying it like it is' and I'm the one that takes the risk of speaking her mind!
I don't believe in making a statement for eternity in the same way I don't believe in fairy-tales. I don't believe that my truth today will be my truth tomorrow, and that's because I don't believe in the future. Intellectuals seek universal truth - that's why they speak little and make it sound grave as if they're speaking trough and in the name of a supreme God. That's also why they talk shit, contradict themselves and always end up reaching the comforting conclusion that existence is futile and life is a paradox. It's almost an excuse for being wrong.
-...I can't really remember, babe.
-When did you smoke for the first time?
Looking at him I realised he never needed me, not really. But I wanted him to need me, I needed him to think he needs me - and I am notorious for getting what I want. Still, until this day he did not truly need me. I stared at one of the few, if not the only, men in my life that was the same even after he met and was yet to be the same even after me being long gone. 'Incredible' is what I thought! 'this kid is incredible'. I all honesty I was amazed. I was astonished even, not because of my arrogance. No!  Even I have my limits! I know I'm not one of those "awesome" individuals that light up the room with a smile, come into people's lives like rain the desert, spread happiness and preach hope.Heaven forbid! I am a leach. I drain out life, hope, love, energy, money, affection, comfort -pretty much all there is to it - out of ...well out of anyone that crosses my way really: there is no such thing as too little or too small. I drain what I lack like a leach drains out blood. And like a leach I get stuck to my "victim". I rarely get the change to leave out of my own will- I'm mostly removed. And for reasons that far surpass my capacity to understand, people still love me. How do I do it?! I'm taking that one to the grave hoping I'll find out myself....When I walk I leave behind exhaustion, desperation, relief, fuck knows really what a leach leaves her 'victim' feeling- but people are never the same once they've met me..... He was still the same..

In noaptea aia m-am rugat la Dumnezeu sa aiba grija de Bobita!