it's past, like it never happened. the past is a remembrance of a dream, a dream of the human mind. past never happened, but only in our minds...
future is a kind of a past, but in front of us.

R.K.


We and They
"A Friend of the Family"
From "Debits and Credits"(1919-1923)
Father and Mother, and Me,
Sister and Auntie say
All the people like us are We,
And every one else is They.
And They live over the sea,
While We live over the way,
But-would you believe it? --They look upon We
As only a sort of They!

We eat pork and beef
With cow-horn-handled knives.
They who gobble Their rice off a leaf,
Are horrified out of Their lives;
While they who live up a tree,
And feast on grubs and clay,
(Isn't it scandalous? ) look upon We
As a simply disgusting They!

We shoot birds with a gun.
They stick lions with spears.
Their full-dress is un-.
We dress up to Our ears.
They like Their friends for tea.
We like Our friends to stay;
And, after all that, They look upon We
As an utterly ignorant They!

We eat kitcheny food.
We have doors that latch.
They drink milk or blood,
Under an open thatch.
We have Doctors to fee.
They have Wizards to pay.
And (impudent heathen!) They look upon We
As a quite impossible They!

All good people agree,
And all good people say,
All nice people, like Us, are We
And every one else is They:
But if you cross over the sea,
Instead of over the way,
You may end by (think of it!) looking on We
As only a sort of They!

R.K.

I keep six honest serving-men
(They taught me all I knew);Their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who.
I send them over land and sea,
I send them east and west;
But after they have worked for me,
I give them all a rest.

I let them rest from nine till five,
For I am busy then,
As well as breakfast, lunch, and tea,
For they are hungry men.
But different folk have different views.
I know a person small-
She keeps ten million serving-men,
Who get no rest at all!

She sends'em abroad on her own affairs,
From the second she opens her eyes-
One million Hows, two million Wheres,
And seven million Whys!

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

plimbandu-ma intr-o seara pe strazile vesnic reci, mi-am dat seama ca niciodata lumea nu o sa fie cum o vad eu.
ascult o melodie care imi aminteste de o seara de iarna ce mirosea a primavara. demult, un aer caldut se amesteca cu cel rece al iernii. parca mirosea a ozon, parca mirosea ca aerul ce-ti intra in plamani atunci cand iti largesti narile peste masura.
in toate iernile si in toate verile amintirilor mele, nu ma pot vedea decat pe mine. eu si marea. eu si zapada. e ca in fotografiile taiate dupa contur, de cei ce nu au dorit sa apara. nu e trist, dar uneori propria lume nu o poti imparti cu nimeni, decat cu tine insuti.
e greu, dar apoi te obisnuiesti si totul devine usor..

si mai asterni un cuvant pe hartie, apoi il transcrii digital. si uite asa cuvant peste cuvant, te cladesti.

Nu poti fi niciodata prea sarac sau prea bogat. Sa fii prea sarac inseamna sa nu ai dreptul sa te nasti, sa fii prea bogat inseamna sa ai totul. In ambele cazuri, nu-ti poti da seama de starea ta, si-n ambele cazuri n-ai de fapt absolut nimic.

astept sa ninga. la norocul meu, e posibil sa astept zile sau poate luni intregi.
Craciunul vine cu siguranta. e de ajuns sa te uiti in calendar si-l vei gasi acolo marcat cu rosu.
nici gandurile mele nu vin, inca. asteapta sa adorm pentru a se napusti ca nebunele asupra mea.
m-am saturat sa vorbesc singura. se pare ca toti si-au acoperit ochii si urechile.
inauntru este cald.

sunt plictisita.
nu mai cred in dragoste. it's a totally waste of time and energy, as I always like to say.
cu totii stim ca exista, dar nimeni nu a vazut-o pana acum...
notiuni, ipoteze, teoreme..

am impodobit bradul. este perfect; de-abia dupa 20 de ani, dar si-a pastrat farmecul copilariei.
si dintr-odata mi-e bine, ma scutur de visul urat al prezentului.
cerul nu mai stie sa ninga, dar bradul micut stie cuvintele noii vieti.
dependenta, nevoia, lacrimile, durerea, frigul, singuratatea, vreau sa fie doar cuvintele dintr-o alta limba. o noua viata, un nou principiu adresat ei. libertate..

"Richness lies in excellence, not in abundance."

"All my life I have sought the simplicity of a single line."

Note

Dana zice sa notam pe foaie.
Ce sa notam? intreaba "Moineau"
"Moineau" se uita la un fax misterios. Se intreaba ce e cu el.
Acu' se uita si Danab.
"Amu" zice "Moineau". Nia Florin cu ce sa va trec?
Suna Dadu. Era sa fac infarct!
"Moineau" opshpatru si cafia.
"Moineau" mananca pixuri si cartofi prajiti cu par!
Ai doua, trei...
"Cineva" (Alex) ii fura pixurile lui "Moineau".
"Moineau" ne ureaza pofta buna cand ne indreptam spre toaleta! :)))
Telefoanele sa sune!!!!
Cafelele si apele sa curga!!
Cadourile sa vina!!!

"Nu-i nou decat ce s-a uitat!"

"La multi oameni cuvantul precede gandirea. Ei stiu ca gandesc doar dupa ce s-au auzit vorbind."

"Cand ultimul copac va fi pierit, ultimul rau va fi fost otravit si ultimul peste - prins, ne vom da seama ca nu putem manca bani."

"Cel mai bun om de stiinta e cel deschis experientelor si care porneste de la o idee plina de imaginatie: orice e posibil."

"Pentru a izbuti lucruri marete, trebuie nu doar sa actionam, ci si sa visam"

"Nu merge acolo unde te duce cararea, mergi acolo unde nu exista carari si lasa tu insuti o urma a trecerii tale"

"Today is a gift, that's why they call it present...."

scena sunt eu.
sala este inima mea. este goala.
autorul este.....am uitat.
peste mine s-a asternut praf. scaunele sunt goale.
nu mai pot plange pentru ca nu mai sunt vie.
in curand echipa de demolare va veni sa curete locul.
o noua cladire se va ridica in locul meu.
sunt doar trista; am inghitit praf pentru a putea uita.
oamenii mi-au facut rau, dar nu-mi mai pot aduce aminte nimic.
nu-mi mai pasa de nimic, nici macar de craciunul ce curand va veni.
pe strazi caut moartea cu gandul.
va veni curand pentru mintea si inima-mi de-acum goale.
lacrimile sunt praf, sare...

cineva mi-a zis asta de curand. m-a durut. atunci ce pot fi? poate doar calitatea de om imi mai ramane.
nu stiu sa fiu femeie, dar sigur stiu sa fiu om.

sangele mamei ar fi trebuit sa ma inece, dar n-am avut noroc. ar fi trebuit sa mor acolo, inauntrul mamei, dar n-am avut noroc. daca stiam cum va fi lumea asta, daca stiam ca o sa mor inecata in propriile mele lacrimi, nu m-as fi nascut, si as fi murit chiar acolo, inauntrul mamei. daca stiam ca o sa iubesc fara speranta, as fi inghitit sangele rosu si gald, cu gust metalic al pantecelui. cineva m-a scos de acolo si zis: "Doamne ce frumoasa e! E o norocoasa".
acum nu mai pot face nimic. durerea lumii m-a ajuns. pe nedrept. acum trebuie sa gust namolul aruncat de altii in gura mea. ma ineaca, dar nu pot muri din cauza lui. n-am noroc

dezamagirea provocata de oameni este o povara mult prea grea pentru sufletu-mi ca un fulg de nea...
ma rog sa ninga mai curand..

These are the days of the open hand
They will not be the last
Look around now
These are the days of the beggars and the choosers
This is the year of the hungry man
Whose place is in the past
Hand in hand with ignorance
And legitimate excuses
The rich declare themselves poor
And most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But we'll take our chances
Because god's stopped keeping score
I guess somewhere along the way
He must have let us alt out to play
urned his back and all god's children
Crept out the back door
And it's hard to love, there's so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it's much too late
Well maybe we should all be praying for time
These are the days of the empty hand
Oh you hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat you wear twice a year
This is the year of the guilty man
Your television takes a stand
And you find that what was over there is over here
So you scream from behind your door
Say "what's mine is mine and not yours"
I may have too much but I'll take my chances
Because god stopped keeping score
And you cling to the things they sold you
Did you cover your eyes when they told you
That he can't come back
Beacuse he has no children to come back for
It's hard to love there's so much to hate
Hanging on to hope when there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it's much too late
So maybe we should all be praying for time

"And it's hard to love
There's so much to hate..."

"Sa visam, asadar, la evanescenta si sa gustam frumusetea ascunsa in nimicnicia lucrurilor."

"Golul este atotputernic, pentru ca poate contine orice. Numai in gol miscarea este posibila."

Kobori-Enshu:

"Un palc de copaci, vara,
Marea, intrezarindu-se printre ei
Si luna palida, abia rasarita. "

"Fiecare noua ceasca de ceai are propria individualitate, e rezultatul unei armonii irepetabile intre apa si foc, intruchipeaza o traditie unica, are o poveste de spus, care e numai si numai a ei, si e menita sa contina frumusetea pura."

hey mister, fetita aceea draguta si dulce a cam disparut din peisaj. daca o vei cauta, probabil ca o vei gasi moarta intr-un sant, desfigurata si plina de sange. sa stii numai ca eu am omorat-o. imi incurca grozav planurile, cu smiorcaielile ei zilnice, cu inima ei slaba si frica ei de lume. vesnic indragostita, vesnic iubind. bleah. prefer fetele triste ale oamenilor, decat inima ei incleiata cu dulceturi aromate. ma facea intotdeauna sa vomit, iar crizele ei frecvente imi cresteau tensiunea. imi inchipuiam ca am probleme cu inima, mai mai sa ma duc la doctor.
de ce sunt oamenii atat de tristi? era doar o intrebare, in lipsa de altceva, intr-un moment cand nu ma simteam in apele mele. mai bine ca am scapat de fatuca aia. frumoasa altfel si desteapta, si calda, si....ce-mi pasa mie. treaba e facuta. sa ziceti mersi ca am mai scapat lumea de un sentimentalist naiv, ce credea ca oamenii pot avea sentimente. as...nimic nu exista sub carcasele alea. goliciune. ii dezbraci si dai de o piele livida, iar sub asta un sistem bine gandit, care nu foloseste nimanui. cam asta ar fi ironia. totul este o masca invatata, strasnic lucrata. trec pe langa ceilalti ca prin branza, nu se uita dreapta stanga. Insa cand celalalt ori urmeaza sa putrezeasca demn la sub 3 metri, ori il mananca vreo boala oribila, isi scot hainele de doliu, si pune-te pe plans neica si pe jelit...si de-abia atunci se gandesc ei ca au cam pierdut vremea de pomana..dar cum vine vorba aia mortii cu mortii, vii cu vii. aia e.
ehhh. de-ati stii voi cat am tras cu fatuca asta. am incercat sa o invat cum trebuie sa procedeze. n-am reusit. incapatanata...aproape ca-mi pare rau de ea, dar nu mai am ce face acum.
dintre toti, de ea imi pare cel mai rau, si ca sa-mi demonstrez mie insami ca am apreciat-o cat de cat, am pastrat cate ceva de la ea. de obicei sterg tot. de data asta...am lasat ceva ascuns sub inima...

"Incercat-am sa inteleg de unde vin lacrimile si m-am oprit la sfinti. Sa fie ei responsabili de stralucirea lor amara?Cine ar sti? Se pare insa ca lacrimile sunt urmele lor. Nu prin sfinti au intrat ele in lume;dar fara ei nu stiam ca plang din regretul paradisului. As vrea sa vad o singura lacrima inghitita de pamant... Toate apuca, pe cai necunoscute noua, in sus. Numai durerea precede lacrimile. Sfintii n-au facut altceva decat sa le reabiliteze"

Emil Cioran

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