te-as intreba ce faci,dar stiu ca primesc acelasi raspuns sec,care ma face sa renunt pentru a 1000-a oara la a iti mai scrie. dar acum o fac pentru ca vreau sa ma descarc odata.
nu stiu daca ai observat,dar de la un timp suntem diferiti. nu stiu ce s-a schimbat si nici de ce,dar e din partea ta tot ce vine si ma face sa fiu la fel,sa revin la tine si nu pot,nu mai vreau..
nu stiu de ce este aproapierea asta ciudata dintre noi,care exista de fiecare data cand iti scriu. nu stiu daca ai observat cat de fericit sunt ca te vad.. si cat de bine ma faci sa ma simt fara macar sa incerci.. ma faci sa rad din toate prostiile. apoi vad ca fericita esti si tu ca ma faci sa rad.. sau poate doar mi se pare.. sigur mi se pare. nu stiu ce e in capul tau,dar eu da,intr-adevar,am tinut si inca tin foarte mult la tine si poate as fi vrut mai mult,dar m-am multumit intotdeauna cu ce primeam din partea ta. poate ca daca nu plecam,lucrurile erau altfel,dar intr-un fel ma bucur ca nu suntem nimic in momentul asta. din cauza ta,o perioada nu m-am simtit deloc bine pentru ca nu eram pregatit sa accept adevarul. nu stiu cum ai tinut tu la mine,si nici cat de mult. nu stiu ce am fost pentru tine,si ce sunt acum,dar chiar nu mai conteaza.

tu nu erai oricine pentru mine,dar recent ai devenit o simpla persoana. nu mai insemni la fel de mult pentru mine si inca mai am nevoie de timp ca sa imi fie bine,pentru ca inca ascult melodiile care ma fac sa ma gandesc la tine.. multi imi spun sa renunt la tine. o fac mereu si functioneaza pana cand apari tu din nou. incerc sa fiu ca tine,dar nu pot sa fiu indiferent.. nu pot sa nu iti vorbesc..
eu pentru tine sunt oricare alta persoana si asa ar trebui sa fii si tu pentru mine.. dar mereu ma faci sa revin la tine si apoi.. ma lasi singur din nou sa ma descurc cu mine cu tot ce simt.. stiu ca nu iti pasa deloc de mine si de tot ce simt si de ce ti-am spus,doar ca mereu mi-ai dat impresia ca iti pasa…

I feel like running away
I’m still so far from home
You say that I’ll never change
But what the fuck do you know?
I’ll burn it all to the ground before I let you in
Please forgive me, I can’t forgive you now.
I remember everything…

Forced happiness is sadness

They tell me to smile, but how can I?
         How can I smile with your voice continually in my head? How can I live when you engulf me in darkness? Life isn’t for forced happiness, it’s for weeping and crying and feeling genuine emotion. So please, don’t hold a knife to my throat during unknown times and make me ‘grin and bear it’. I don’t want to feel that cold metal biting into the soft flesh of my neck. I have no desire to have foreign sentiments injected into my heart.
         Why do you force me to wear such startlingly bright clothes, when all I want to do is spin in green fields wearing black satin? No one should be made to disguise their sadness with colour, because the soul simply refuses to work like that. It knows what it wants so, if it wants to cry tears of nacreous silver, let it. Let yourself cry, don’t make yourself laugh, trust me. It’s easier.
         Listen to sad music, allow yourself to know that there are others in the world tasting the same despair that you are. I’m not instructing you to lap at depression as a cat does milk, I’m telling you to surf it. To ride it out. And pay attention to that voice, that small voice, trapped within the depths of your mind.
         Can you hear what it’s saying…? It’s saying 'Things will only get better.'
         And please, believe me, I’ve looked death in the eye and laughed, it’s right. Things will only ever get better.


It was everywhere, in the streets and houses,
     on farms and now in the air itself.
It had come from history and we were history
     so it had come from us.
I told my artist friends who courted it
     not to suffer
on purpose, not to fall in love
     with sadness
because it would be naturally theirs
     without assistance,
I had sad stories of my own,
     but they made me quiet
the way my parents’ failures once did,
     nobody’s business
but our own, and, besides, what was left to say
     these days
when the unspeakable was out there being spoken,
     exhausting all sympathy?
Yet, feeling it, how difficult to keep
     the face’s curtains
closed - she left, he left, they died -
     the heart rising
into the mouth and eyes, everything so basic,
     so unhistorical
at such times. And then, too, the woes
     of others would get in,
but mostly I was inured and out
     to make a decent buck
or in pursuit of some slippery pleasure
     that was sadness disguised.
I found it, it found me, oh
     my artist friends
give it up, just mix your paints,
the strokes unmistakably will be yours.