Scrierile mele despre viaţă: In vis desenat

5/4/13

In vis desenat

Stiuse, mereu stiuse ca ea va fi acolo. A reusit sa-i scrie cateva cuvinte aseara, sa ii declare ca ea este acolo cu el adesea, in gand, suflet, trup si sentimente.

Iar ea, tanara si aproape inocenta, s-a bucurat..ca un copil, desi stia ca de la un zburator ca el este important si doar atat...ca si-a facut curaj sa-i spuna ce intuia de mult...ce isi spunea de multe ori inainte sa adoarma. O durea insa ideea ca el va pleca mereu...si se gandea ca va ramane doar o insula de frumos, unde dragul de el se va retrage cate o perioada, ca sa uite de tot...de turnee, esecuri, succese, probleme...

Daca ma veti intreba daca a fost fericita...cu prezenta lui spirituala, mai mult decat cu el..cred ca a fost, acolo, in viata ei, cu faptul ca el exista si crestea..chiar si in zilele cand Soarele si ploile nu mai veneau dinspre nord...dinspre el.

Vroia ca el sa ii creioneze la propriu si figurat viata...si stia ca o va face, era doar o chestiune de timp pana cand se va abandona in lumina si culoarea ei...pana il va strange in brate mai tare decat a facut-o vreodata si il va lua de mana pentru a-i arata ce gradina bogata in viata a sadit tot timpul cat el a fost plecat, absent, ingandurat, temator...

Era secreta, rezervata doar lui. A stiut mereu asta, de cand i-a intalnit ochii de copil mirati.

"If it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. If you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it. If you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. If you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. If you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. If it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. If you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. If you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. If it never does roar out of you, do something else. If you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. Don't be like so many writers, don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self-love. The libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. Don't add to that. Don't do it. Unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. Unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. When it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. There is no other way. And there never was." - Charles Bukowski

“Sit down. Inhale. Exhale. The gun will wait. The lake will wait. The tall gall in the small seductive vial will wait will wait: will wait a week: will wait through April. You do not have to die this certain day. Death will abide, will pamper your postponement. I assure you death will wait. Death has a lot of time. Death can attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is just down the street; is most obliging neighbor; can meet you any moment. You need not die today. Stay here–through pout or pain or peskyness. Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow. Graves grow no green that you can use. Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.”