Conception, perusal & scission


Reproached he laughs too much, too often. If only they would read him! But then he would be reproached he hurts too much, too often. And yet, the genuineness of his peaceful, simple and content daily existence imbued with scarce but utterly healthy and harmonious relationships, despite his ransacking and soaring aims, is indisputable. Because in literary form he spouts out all the poison that simmers in him, just as in any striving creature.


Her grandfather said, find a reliable man that you can build with, as I found your grandmother. Later figured out, in love, friendship and elsewhere, the unreliable ones pervert into fury and frustration the joy in the strong one that cares and passively destroy the sense of self-worth in the weak one that begs. Charm, intelligence and style altogether are outweighed, in any space and time, by reliability. So, never self-condemn yourself to unhappiness. Compromise your ego and its derived resolutions, but never lower your minimal threshold of standard expectancies. Cut off a bit of your soul, rather than have it corrupted all…overwhelmingly truthful providential guidance.


Signs of “predestination”…what we make of coincidences when we adorn them with expectancies. The almighty creations and connections are accomplished only by gradually mastering the art of commitment, not by depending on the adventitious nature of intuition and conjecture. Be prudent with those that desperately seek variation and distraction outside as to enrich their life, because they rarely possess inside the fecundity needed to blossom a durable edifice with you. Also, be wary with those that attempt to juggle their sensible and lyrical pith with a flamboyant and self-protective persona, as they often end up stifling their un-manifested and inestimable gist rather than being disloyal to their carefully crafted mask, solely for the sake of a lukewarm acclaim or a delusional dominion.


Moral enigma…is the fear that manufactures cowards, or the cowardice that yields poltroons? People that constantly externalise their guilt and never admit their own shortcomings while you declare yours and apologise for, people that fail to grant a basic explanation for their reprehensible manner or at least point out justly the flaws they see in you so that you can attenuate them, briefly, people that avoid any mature interrelationship, do elide them. No trauma validates sustained inhuman treatment; if one can’t fathom at least an inch of your value as human being, they will mistreat you all the time, through thick and thin, in present and future. Be empathetic, not pathetic. Don’t victimise, but don’t condone, not even slightly; cease your crippling biding, fly away and, without further second thoughts, seek another lay.


p.s. nu mai am nimic pentru tine, omule. lașitatea ta, frica ta, tăcerea ta, sau dumnezeu (dacă există) știe ce, a ucis tot cântul născut în ființa mea pentru tine. îți doresc, cu tot suflul meu, doar bine…departe de mine.


The photo’s source

The Visit


In that now indelible evening, everything was as vapid and tepid as usually. Back from my wearing yet refreshing as idea of ‘professional vocation’ job, numbed by the 3 cups of milky and honeyed coffee that kept me going through that day only with a ham and cheese croissant grabbed in the morning rush, I decided to take a therapeutic bath.

The lime scented candle contrasting with the sweet marshmallow flavour of the bubble gel always has on me the same effect as an invigorating dive in an ever-welcoming sea. Expiatory. I lazily rubbed my skin with the abrasive sponge as to remove yet another layer of deceased cells, and flicked through my journal’s previous night entry. I had honestly laughed at the image of my pathetic and passionate scribblings, punctuated with negligent spelling errors and pangs of utter despair.

Such biochemical imbalance at this unfit point of third-of-life-spent-already! xxvii years out of the predicted average of lxxxiii for a human female in a developed world. Reasonably young, about xiii years of prime time of life still to go. Yet, just another organic matter shell of comprehended truths and fallacies, of withered and reclaimed ideas, of mercurial aspirations and crippling delusions, of delectable recipes repeated at dinner time for the years gone and the ones to come.

A foretelling perspective: soon, lovingly embodied chimera of prosperity and gain. Marriage, progenies, own spacious shelter, professional laurels, enriching trips and snapshots, a collection of fine wrinkles a few decades from now…and then?

Justifiable, even though futile lamentation? Very probable, considering the repetitive nature of human itineraries. And my generous vanity that has ever strived to tickle me with ideas of undeniable unicity yet continually failed to utterly becalm my sensitivity. Oh, such gloominess, such entrapping sense of vain!

I generally get tired, well, in fact exhausted, when I demand an impossible protruding of our transient nature. Aching temples, trembling limbs, eyes about to pour a few streams.  A complete menu really. As I am cerebral and sufficiently capable, despite my self-involved character, to name my exact states, and as self-pity is one I cannot stand, I had decided to interrupt my splenetic sinking. I got out, slipped into my overly vintage-styled bedroom, and put a favourite record on.

“Live fast, die young…

live fast, die young…

live fast, die young…”

played a candid suggestion of plausible refrain in my feverish imagination. Wrapped in my silky black chemise, I started dancing around the fluffy Persian carpet, imagining a ritual of spells that would deny me the unreeling of such a trivial yet desirable destiny! Of petty mortal being. I went on for quite a while, even though I have never been a too keen or skilled dancer.

At the very precise moment when I felt a sudden twinge of total insight (or acute tiredness?), of late night cathartic revelation, it happened. A soft knocking on the entrance door.  Once, twice, three times. Then, sharp. No pull of the doorbell. Instinctively I looked at the antique horologe suspended on the Eastern wall, piece of collection inherited from my now cassette-of-dust grandmother. Almost midnight.

I approached the massive, wooden frame of the entrance door with the rhythm of a snail crawling on a leaf. I couldn’t distinguish any sound beside that of my accelerated respiration and didn’t dare to look through the eyehole. So, instead, I stuck my body next to the smooth, glossy surface that separated me from outside, and listened tightly.

The steady race of a breath.  In tandem with mine, as if mingling with it, yet clearly louder. I stepped back as burned. After an instant of hesitation and reproach regarding my ludicrous and unacceptable attitude (have always perceived myself as brave, even slightly fierce!), I moved forward again and stared through the hazy aperture. And then…then, I saw you.

I could not describe in poor decrepit adjectives the amount of warm pleasure I felt when I recognized you. I sensed as if the time and distance that stood between us for so long had dissipated at the sight of your bright as dew and heavy as oceans lights. I opened the door, pulled you in. Sat with you at my tiny bedroom’s elliptic table, grabbed your hands and kissed your beautiful ebony hair. You wiped my teary face with it, then pushed me back on my chair and handed me, smiling, my long-forgotten ring. You told me how you wore it next to yours on a burgundy velvet necklace, for all the ages that had passed since we last met…

You look around, then at me.

“It wasn’t the right time then, but now it is. You asked for it, and you still desire it, so now we are going to do it.”

A guileless play of alchemy: glassy globe, cordial palms, a kaleidoscopic chandelier in the bleak, unappealing darkness of improvised tent. Proffer me your ring, let’s grate a special rock between our golden circles. Now impart the content of the sacred chalice half equal. Rub it on your epidermis. The magic number begins. A karma request as starter.

Close your eyes, scatter this mysteriously pungent powder on the sphere, put the lamp’s dim light on me. What do you see? The minutes tear their seconds away as a downpour of pebbles rushed by a torrential, hazardous weather. Open your hypnotic scrims. What did you see?

“Compactness. Utter compactness. As if I can’t flay the emergence of your self’s impenetrable fortification”

“Pigmy apology. This is a total nonsense! We act as toreros whose bait is anything but scarlet, and whose bulls have effaced themselves as to prevent the disembowelment of the deluded bipedal warriors… Enough. Pull the curtains apart, maim to shards this contemplation of augury.”

“No. Only because your fascination has surrendered to scepticism, doesn’t mean it won’t work. At least for one of us. If you deliberately and wholeheartedly choose, you shall never un-choose. Else, all it is irredeemiably lost. It is my time now. Read me. Don’t act petulant.”

Without dogged pressure, I easily capitulate. Only for the ones I adore, for sure. I close my eyes. I strive to envisage you aside from the shadow of the retro buffet profiling behind you, aside from the demure mauve collar of your snowy dress and the green inquisitiveness of your flickering torches.  A grayscale scene disentangles in my oddly limp vision.


Argent horizon, fleecy pellucid clouds, a Stygian tree. Beneath its corolla of nigrescent needle-like leaves you stand integer in a chiffon ivory dress, still and inexpressive as if awaiting a mutilating purgation. A rustling sound distracts your fixation precisely when I am almost convinced that you transmute into a timeless gemstone. You stare up, and now I see, the zephyr sunders the clusters of sable foliage from their vital stable source. The sour cherries left as buds in the centre of each bundle are red, raw and glossy as easily spurted blood.

They hurt my mirage.

As I am about to faint with weariness and painfully profuse deference, I discern the voice. A raging, aching, terrifying sound. And I see it. Ethereal as your dress, brutal as the zephyr, unfathomable as my self’s compactness to you, I see it. A melanistic tiger. An assemblage of apoplectic vibration, a definite mass of erotic, injurious liveliness. Unperturbed, you still stare up, as if the crucial secret of your redemption from this imminent jeopardy is throbbing somewhere inside those minuscule, sanguine pearls of sharp sweetness.

I hold my breath, and the feral beast impatiently jumps straight over you and impales its savage canines of flesh eater in the scarce spheres that shamelessly hang up there, the limpid objects of your rapt analysis. Then, to my utter dismay and disbelief, he gently kneels in front of you. As a devout pilgrim on the hassock of his idolized temple. As a damned criminal on his preordained guillotine.

With unvaried indifference, you collect every single bearing from between his splashed with bleeding juice fangs and swallow them in a frozen instant, without a single quiver of your humanly flexible mandible. You pierce your right forefinger tip in his edgy tusks and pour the colourless drops inside his eager wide-open mouth. He closes his eyes, and your fingers begin to stroke his immaculate fur. You climb on his broad slender back, and I clearly notice his muscles beautifully lifting him up on his irony scaffold of bones, while creating a river-like undulation on his complete guise. Barefoot, with unkempt hair and now gory lips, you smile.

You glance at me and now I see that your eye sockets are wholly white as well. You point your damaged finger at me, prophetically, and the feline observes me as well, for the very first time. As he sights me, I realize it. He’s got your haunting eyes. Verdant sapphires. As from an underground or upper ground realm, sheer echo of serenity, you murmur in a now tender and redundantly static atmosphere,

“A small price to pay for a vivid phantasm. Two irides for intimacy of inspirited yearning.”


A resounding reverberation. A corrupted lamp next to a breakable globe. At a wooden table, in a minuscule chamber with jetty curtains on, a silhouette. In her right outstretched palm, two golden rings. On her opposite side, a Gothic mirror with gilded frame adorned by immemorial symbols.

“Through alchemy, scoop my eyes, and then see. It is all worth it.”                   



The photos’ source

Thesis, antithesis & synthesis

INFJ: So, what’s your ideology?

INTJ: You want me to comprise my life’s anthem in a bunch of debatable letters then?

INFJ: Attempt to, yeah…Amaze me?

INTJ: Alright. Be loyal to the factual truth rather than to the people’s subjective and volatile sympathy – inclusively yours. It is the thesis of my guiding trinity, the hardest and bitterest substance to subsist on, but the closest to divine and furthest from sacrilege.

INFJ: What’s the antithesis of it?

INTJ: Cherish your feelings, but mangle and discard them when not reciprocal or if immoral, don’t act on them. My antithesis. As what’s genuine is perpetually pristine and prone to ripening by fulfilment. You can’t bring about fruition in a barren terrain out of sheer, unidirectional will, as sentiments are validated in duality, not unity. Nor can you gather cornucopia in a realm poisoned by another being’s agony. What endures and is worth chasing is never built on a single pillar of hope, nor on another’s collapse.

INFJ: And what’s the compensation point, the unifying principle of these two thirds, the synthesis?

INTJ: Let go but don’t let down. Even if you don’t care about. It should be the universal premise of human decency. Deceit pays you back manifolded, as does betrayal, lying, abandonment…and all the other petty crimes which gradually raze that which dwells beyond and beneath the organic shell. And if you care, if you truly care, hold on and affirm it mightily in words and facts, without shame, fear and ego. My synthesis. To hold on while being held onto, despite all derisive temptations and among crumbling destinies scented with cheap perfume of depravity, commodity and facile quitting, is the apogee of existence on all plans.


The photo’s source

I can’t stand, nor understand…

People without moral integrity. I have seen so many times so many of them reiterating same irretrievable desecration…doing the wrong thing for the right person and the right thing for the wrong person.

The indolent beings that request lenity for their spineless acts of treachery and afterwards take offence when not granted or, captives of their self-delusion, distort the other’s immaculate real self with their own guilt as to absolve themselves. Those that can’t comprehend that, as a writer that I appreciate on this platform, Cristian Lisandru put it, there are only two options: being betrayed or not being betrayed; there is no such thing as betrayal no.1, no.2 and so on. Betrayal germinates at its inception, indelible as time’s flow through our transfiguring embodiment.

Those self-indulgent humans whose utter silence, in their vision, spares you suffering, when in fact it smothers you with inhuman hurt and reflects only the fact they don’t have even a speckle of respect for you…especially when you implore their brutal honesty, a limpid rejection or a monosyllabic explanation as elucidating closure

Why there are beings whose touching yet unrequired and unrequited love faithfully follows you year after year, seemingly undiminished by your own bitter refusal. The regret of not being able to reduce their affection to sheer friendship, the only relationship you could ever envisage with them…of being incapable to accept the secure destiny of caring endearment they offer you as you don’t sense an inexplicable chemistry that makes you gravitate towards them.

Why the bridges we laboriously construct between each other can’t be pure, genuine and straightforward, but collapse-forecasting threads of vanity and neurotic fears perennially creep upon their steely scaffold.

…mea culpa, I don’t indwell their thorny land


The photo’s source

We should apologise for our deliberate mirages


We should apologise…we, for whom the urgent subjects of our all sorts of infatuation are factually mere objects of our distorting imagination

We should recognise….that the reverse of nothing which becomes something and ultimately everything is our most dreaded yet habitual flaw

We should realise…sooner than later that we ought to proffer chances where unfailingly met with caring attitude and let go where shadows of intentional self-indulgence and sabotaging neglect struggle for supremacy

…but, oh, how seducing the grip of scented with happiness delusion is, for the mind incited with the ample beauty of amplifying and beautifying!


The photo’s source