Inca ceva

In ultima vreme tot ce pot sa fac este sa stau pe loc. Mai arunc cate o pietricica incolo sau incoace si dup-aia revin in pozitia initiala, pentru ca e caldut si comod. Tot astept sa vina cineva sa ma invete sa fac ricoseuri dar uit de fiecare data ca trebuie sa si formulez o cerere in acest sens. Si cum nu sunt in stare, realizez ca cea mai sigura cale este sa ma invat eu singura sa le fac, cu multa practica. Oare de ce cand ne impotmolim in anumite stari pe care in mare noi ni le provocam, vrem sa vina careva sa ne arunce cu o cizma in cap ca sa putem trece mai departe? Nu pot sa scriu ce ar trebui sa scriu dar uite ca totusi dau din degete aici si cuvintele tot ies. Poate or iesi si alea care trebuie la un moment dat. Dar de fapt, ideea de a trebui este o interpretare gresita a ceea ce ai putea sa faci pentru tine, si poate ca ti-ar fi mai bine daca ai putea. Nu vreau sa termin in indemnurile naiv americanesti despre a vrea si a putea si asa mai departe, pe care nici nu vreau sa le exemplific. Dar ideea este ca VREAU...

Bloody memories...

I saw it, if seeing was the only thing I could have done even as my locks were penetrating my eyes in lack of dignity. It was there and I could have done nothing but observe its every characteristic, its every angle, its every corner. Cornering a bottle of red wine was exactly what came to mind instantly. Seeing it in the same place it had been for months, not being considered for opening, which made it even more attractive than it could ever have been. Even so, the cork was standing in the way. A tiny piece of indescribable fabric was blocking my utter desire to gulp down enormously limited amounts of red wine. Bloody wine! The knife came in handy as I struggled to pull the cork out, tearing it apart until it was eventually pushed into the bottle and smothered. Which needed no more violence as my patience bore several other seconds for the wine to be poured in a mug. There in the silence spread by the drink in my flesh, I glanced moderately at the shattered pieces of cork left on the table like a corpse lying in the sun as the assassin absorbed its effects on the raw lack of being. The bottle of wine could only put itself to use by freezing, as I invisibly concealed the murder weapon on the open table.