Melissa Micului Paris

Cu totii ne regasim in ea mai devreme sau mai tarziu, poate nu si in brutalitatea actiunilor ei, cel putin, nu mereu, dar in majoritatea gandurilor si fricilor ei, ne-am identificat cu totii.
Se plimba singura pe strazile orasului, vrea sa fie libera si totusi, se incatuseaza si consuma in banalitati ce nu-i aduc niciun strop de satisfactie.
Isi poarta parul desprins, ii place sa il simta ciufulit de vant, mirosul de asfalt incins si ochelari de soare sa isi acopere privirea. Fiecare pereche de ochi, are in spate o poveste, de obicei, una care te face sa te cutremuri si te infioara.
A incercat de atatea ori sa evadeze incat a devenit prinsa in propriul plan de a se elibera, de ce anume? Nici ea nu mai stie. Asculta muzica la casti, foarte tare, cat sa poata bloca orice alt sunet din jurul ei, neriscand sa pice in postura in care sa fie nevoita sa poarte o conversatie cu cineva, se invaluie in fum si scrum, citeste carti cu titluri ciudate si are o pasiune pentru abstract.
Are mult regrete, insa atunci cand le gandeste la rece, nu ar schimba nimic.
Se imbraca neadecvat si majoritatea oamenilor se intorc sa se uite, intr-un fel o dezgusta si o incanta in aceeasi masura.



...to be continued....

Before I leave this place:

I want to make sure iI did something big. I want to be remembered.
I want to have lived life to the fullest.
I want to reach that peaceful state of mind everyone seems to be talking about.
I want to love and be loved.
I want to travel to unusual places.
I want to learn how to play an instrument.
Go scuba diving.
Go to New York.
Make reckless decisions.
I want to make mistakes, a lot of them.
I want to have a cat, a cute fully cat.
Have kids, only two.
Have a wedding on the beach.
Leave my footprint on humanity.
Make an impact on someone's life.
Move to the seaside.
Get a tatto, wrist and jaw-line.
Write a book.
Organize an exhibition.
Sing in front of an audience.

...more is about to come...

Dust and Ashes

Something nice, something borrowed, something that you have once owned. Something that defines you and destroys you, something that burns, something that erases, creates, gives birth and adjusts everything. Something like you, like me, or us together, that flows with the wind and blows with the waves, something chaotic, hard to describe with simple words or be captured in a regular frame. Something that some people would call "magic", a word that I have stopped using when I realized that growing up would never allow me to keep any concept related to surrealism.
I got my notebook and a piece of blank paper, burnt everything and watched the ashes dissolving in a glass of water. As I took as many breaths as I could, thick dust was filling my lungs, as a constant reminder of my "idea of life", and I tried to swallow my pride, but I gagged and had to leave it where it was. Adulthood is a place for boring people, some would say, and I should agree with them, but since Neverland is nowhere to be found, we shall consume ourselves in the emptiness of these surroundings. 
All my seasons have faded, I compressed them in a book named "Memoirs", it is now covered with dust as it sat for too long on the shelves, in my room.
Exactly when I needed the most it appeared, it never went away, he kept his promise, I only wish I could have kept mine.