In deviatii de stereo on December 31, 2009 at 3:04 pm
Dar ziua, în amiaza mare, îmi spun că ăsta e drumul pe care l-am ales şi la capătul căruia aş vrea, atât de tare, să ajung întreagă.
*my apartment in full emptiness, the cinema, the lights out and Coldplay, every month of June and every August 13, every year and place I loved someone and never entirely actually recovered.
In carti on December 23, 2009 at 9:19 pm
Cartea asta e incredibilă. O simt ca pe rochia perfectă, cu tăietura după felul şi asemănarea trupului şi a minţii mele, şi, în acelaşi timp, ca pe cea mai mare ironie. Ca atunci când crezi că viaţa îţi joacă feste prin simplul fapt că îţi scoate în cale totul într-un fel atât de verosimil. Când crezi că sunt coincidenţe şi că le resimţi doar pentru că trăieşti acelaşi lucru. Dar, atât de mult? Cred că mintea mea are o cădere de spectacol.
[later edit]. You have been breathtaking in all possible ways. Iar cu partea aia de final atât-de-Jonathan-Safran-Foer-like şi cu pasajele de Beigbeder m-ai făcut să vreau să-ţi scriu cea mai bună, cea mai pertinentă cronică.
In deviatii de stereo on December 22, 2009 at 2:13 pm
You actually can`t live without thinking of the ones that adored you.. actually .. thinking about the adoration. Dunno if that makes sense
That’s ..another kick ass movie line. You wanna work with me on a script?
Well come on, we’ll be rich!
In boris vian, carti on December 22, 2009 at 11:28 am
I found this photo today, thanx to Oana. It makes me think of Boris’ novel, that one supreme novel I can’t get over, and of women as these thirsty, untamed heartsnatchers. Bearing the burden of all the hearts they swallowed, making it obvious that they won’t survive without carrying the shades and traces of everyone who loved them. When their hearts are empty rooms. In sickness and in health, Boris, once again, we meet.
In march fifteen on December 21, 2009 at 9:14 pm
I miss how we worked together, how we spent evenings in bed doing nothing, how my dresses used to fit your t-shirts. I miss your hands in my hair and I miss wearing your clothes at work and eating from the same dinner plate. I miss summer with your friends and dancing our feet off on Friday nights. And I can’t seem to shake this habit of wanting to call you, of wanting to know I can go somewhere I’m safe from everything. I miss you picking me up from work. I miss the stupid things and gestures you did to try and make me laugh, the concerts we’ve been together, the people who told us we’re beautiful.
But then I remember how I hated becoming so dependent on your help, how I hated the movies you liked and viceversa, how my style was never your kind of style, how my shoes never matched yours. How that would always bother you. How you unexpectedly wanted to ditch me the day before I had surgery just because I wanted more out of us. How you were always afraid I’ll eat up your space by moving in even for a week and how you would put me down in needles and pins every single time I’d ask you to take me home for Christmas. How you were never jealous and how that gave me the distasteful freedom to cheat on you and even write pages about it, without you noticing. How you stopped telling me I looked pretty and how you judged me for spending my money on expensive footwear. How you were reading my lines and all you could say was “It’s nice, but I don’t get it“. How I would talk all by myself for minutes without getting any answers. How you would criticise me for smoking after you quit and how you would beg me for cigarettes after you started smoking again. How you always seemed suffocated and with one foot off the boat. How you made stupid intolerable mistakes like buying me books you knew I’ve already read and not even signing them. How you never remembered what was my favourite music, my favourite writer, band, not even my shoe size. And worst of all I hated how you never, ever, wanted to buy me flowers. How I had to make lists of all that was in my mind cause you could never read me enough well to figure me out on your own. How you said I was crazy because I talked too much and wanted so much more. How you never understood. How you always rolled your eyes whenever I had champagne for breakfast. How you became lazy and how you complained over everything about me, from haircut to hand bags. I don’t miss our late mornings together, I don’t miss the terror of our fights and not even you saying you love me. Cause that’s not true. Well at least not in the last ten months. I don’t miss me for the last year and a half. Colorblind, confused and morbid.
So to be honest, the only thing I miss right now is the day. The year, the frenzy. March fifteen, drunk in a bus. I totally take my fault for that. And it was only half worth it. We’re both these great, amazing people. I just think we were never meant for each other.