Scrierile mele despre viaţă: January 2024

1/7/24

Undone

Nu știu cum trebuie procedat pentru a opri hemoragiile sufletești. Cred că niciodată nu am știut cum să le opresc în totalitate. Da, încercăm tot felul de remedii pentru a anihila ceea ce simțim cu adevărat, până în "plăsele", însă rana continuă să supureze. Cicatricea e mereu acolo si e suficientă o lovitură pentru a se deschide și a reveni la modul de sângerare. Și nu trece cu un bandaj, e iluzoriu să credem că banalitatea și frivolitatea pot duce la vindecarea adevărată, uitare, nepăsare, golire.

E de ajuns o linie melodică, recitirea unor crâmpeie scrise, vocile oamenilor care ne-au atins sufletele, redarea unor mesaje vocale pe care le știi aproape ca pe cele mai sfinte rugăciuni încât să cazi din nou în prăpastia neputinței, a golului imens care nu poate fi umplut cu niciun substitut. Nu am aflat încă cel mai potrivit și eficient truc împotriva devastarii și acestui tip de sângerare emoțională.

"Like snow on the beach"... am văzut acest fenomen la finalul lunii noiembrie, în plină furtună și cod roșu. And still, is just a song, just a line, just...

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"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.”