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Showing posts from January 29, 2008

Are books for real, Mr. Rawley, or is it all just an illusion?

- Is it true, that there are people, going up and down those streets outside, busy and undecided? Is it, Mr. Rawley?
- It's true. But in the same time as false as it is true. Most of them just wander around, without a goal... Or just trying to buy time.
-Is it true Mr. Rawley, that mirrors lie?
-Oh... well, my dear, mirrors never lie. It's us who look behind the glass. It's us who try to fake the image. Mirrors are just a tool we use, just like any other. But, on the other hand, don't always believe what you see there. Except the case, of course, when you dare to be true to yourself.
- Well, then, Mr. Rawley, are books for real? Or is it all just an illusion?
- Of course they are for real. They are as real as we are. As those who write them are. But, in the end, we're always in search for who we are and mostly, we deny what we know or feel. You see, people are afraid sometimes. Are afraid that if they uncover themselves they will be left alone, naked... empty... in the …

Odata am ucis o vrabie...

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Imagini finale prinse pe o retina. Imaginea mea, oglindita pe suprafata de sticla a unor ochi negri... rotunzi... inerti. Moartea arata ca o proiectie. Uneori a ta in lividitatea ei. Uneori, seamana cu un tip inalt si blond, cu pielea atat de alba incat aproape ca pare translucida. Si, da. Cu ochi de cer... imposibil de inteles, in care ai impresia ca te pierzi. Intr-un dictionar de simboluri, va avea insa, tot timpul, ochii verzi.
Cateodata, insa, seamana cu un porumbel fara suflare, pe un covor. Inconjurat de pene. Cu ochii semi-deschisi. Reci. Cu gatul rupt, cu ghearele incremenite intr-o incercare de agatare a unor ultime momente. Sau pur si simplu, uitate intr-o inutila inclestare.