I am wondering: why do people need to write?

My take on it is that it is done for the same reasons people have sex. There are so many similarities. People do it because they have a romantic idea about it that was seeded by some wave of emotional questionable erudition. Some others because they are copying other people. Some to solve childhood problems. Some to fill a void regardless of the other people involved – sometimes the relationship with the public is totally neglected. Some to demonstrate skill or performance. Some because they find it so natural they just feel the need to do it, no explanations needed.

Watching closely, there are many explanations for a single word. Just one word. Like a single word creates a world of its own. Its own universe with self defined existence.

But as anyone who reads pieces of great literature, finds the words of the writer limited expressions of an inexpressible universe that reigns far superior to any language that can ever be created by the human race.

It is in this spaceless space and timeless moments that pure existence resides and it is so strong and powerful that there just isn’t a way to even marginally express it.

So, having known this, what is the point of books when pure existence overshadows them all? It looks like simple toys for psychiatric patients. Or maybe this is the human condition; struggling beings waiting for a droplet of divinity to ease the pain of getting stuck and exhausted in the mud of existence.


Illusions of happiness

Why is it that I have so many deep emotions of a grand future? Why is it that I feel I am going to be tremendously happy and fulfilled?

This happened all my life like a prophetic dream waiting to unfold. But it seems that it never happens. And as Chuck Palahniuk says in “Fight Club” about the middle children of history (“We’re the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War’s a spiritual war… our Great Depression is our lives. We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off.”) I am starting to feel very, very pissed off. All my feelings that are to precede a major destiny shift to great happiness seem to always precede an actual hell. A living hell. Like going to bed with “floating on a cloud” simple but profound peace only to wake up in the middle of the night with the living horror of a bad dream. What happened in between? Where did all went off to totally unthinkable madness? Like feeling you are a good person, with good intentions and good deeds only to be shaken into this surprisingly new standard where all of a sudden you are judged and sentenced to a criminal offence you have never committed. And as absurd as it might sound you begin to ask yourself where is the miracle that you are? Maybe this is what hurts more. Knowing that you are a miracle despite all the broken bones, the broken heart, the broken spirit. Yes, this hurts more than broken bones, than broken heart, than broken spirit. Although you can only stop to feel the broken bones or the broken heart or the broken spirits. Or all three at once. All this pain can never numb the inner knowing that you deserve better. That you are better. That you are more. That you are love.


I am a lot older than I ever thought I would be. I don’t know if this is because of age or because I never truly lived and just now I came to realize it.

Today I can say I am sober. But in more ways than one. Yes, in the basic sense this day completes a cycle of 14 years since I decided I would not be drinking again. Actually the decision was to take a 10 year break from that poison called alcohol. 14 years later it still is a very good decision. I escaped not only the poisoning but the thirst and the people I considered my best friends. It is kind of funny how we consider the booze the nasty stuff. But the nasty stuff that we actually need to let go of is the illusion created by appearances.

They are your best friends because you feel really connected to them and you feel them close to you, especially if you throw a couple of beverages in. I am looking back and that illusion dissolves. Them calling you their best friend they ever had transforms from a proud statement into a lie. Where were they when I needed them? Where were the money I lent them when my poor mother had the most excruciating matches with cancer? They were not there when they should have been without me asking. They were not there when I asked. They still want to be friends – they feel this would be polite.

And how can she be still breathing when she threaten she will kill herself if I leave her? It was nothing but the illusion a psychopath created. She was nothing but a shell full of sin throwing lust around like a mercenary throws a knife, only deadlier.

Being sober from alcohol is a good thing. You see a lot of things clearly; it brings you a surprising feeling of freedom. But nothing beats being sober for the truly important stuff: discerning true affection. The cutting through the appearances to the bottom of it. It no longer needs to look pretty. It has to bear good fruit. A she can no longer enter my good graces with fake lips, fake breasts or lustful intentions. The hotness and the prestige are now degrading scales. The blinding wanting is removed by the feeling of its outcome. The world becomes very simple. It’s the simple things that I want: a touch of beauty, a gust of purity, a dribble of generosity and some unworldly roots.

The speed

I keep thinking about the speed and what the world is like now. There were times a couple of hundred of years when people did not have the means to produce in a fast manner the needed goods. It all took a lot of time and a lot of skill.

Here we are in the present where we have so much technology and access to resources. All is done with great speed. But strangely enough we are always out of time. We tend to do a lot of things and we do them fast but the question remains: why don’t we have time? And when you ask questions like these you start noticing that you live in the midst of a chaotic construct. The inertia of the world got you spinning in the same direction and at the same speed. But do you need it? How much time are you allowing yourself to be staring at a piece of glass? We are always on facebook or some other sort of social media, exubering presence for individuals who don’t care about you. We call it fun but are we really happy? We laugh at silly cats or whatever amusing pieces of information people overshare but for how long? Not for very much time. We need to change the focus and the mood almost instantly to cope with some other aspect of the chaos we call our life. A lot of switching back and forth. No wonder bipolar disorder is so common these days.

So we got all the technology and the resources we might need but we are not happy. We don’t have time. And still we have a lot of homeless people and a lot of crimes.

There are quite a few books that are dated thousands of years old. They don’t necessarily describe technology or means for living. But they all have some kind of stories or legends about people having conflicts. It is strange that we are thousands of years apart and we seem to have the same problems.

So what is the use of it all? All the hassle and bustle of being busy and using technology and comfort if the main theme of conflict prevails? How can we call ourselves civilised if we continue to have armies? Who are going to fight against? Ourselves? All the greatness of building and manufacturing but still the common theme is people hating their job. It is so fake and we behave as if we like it. But we don’t. How else we would explain depression and suicide? Or the addictions? We all look for an escape but never would we work together to create one. Then we get pissed and write about it aimlessly on some blog hoping no one will read.


Mda… șuvoiul. Asta e ecoul zgomotului interior. Prima definitie este cea preluata automat din copilarie. Cred ca intelesul este aproape automat. Intelegi si mai ales simti sensul cuvantului atunci cand privesti acea aglomerare de apa care se misca cu repeziciune.

Intr-un un mod introvertit si introspectiv te gandesti la o molecula de apa din acel amalgam vijelios. Te identifici cu acea molecula si te simti impins, aruncat si rasucit intre multe alte molecule. Offf… ganduri de copil curios care pretuieste timpul si exploreaza.

Ajungi multi ani mai tarziu sa te simti exact acea molecula. Doar ca șuvoiul este viata ta iar celelalte molecule sunt oameni ca si tine prinsi intr-o valtoare necontrolata.

Aceasta este reprezentarea unui parcurs. O definitie metaforica. Nu al unui fapt deosebit de fizic si de natural. Ci a unei emotii. Cea a neputintei, a mainilor legate, a mersului incatusat, a miscarii lipsite de libertate. Dar mai ales a gandurilor care te piseaza si te involbureaza si te rascolesc; si in fata carora nu ai nici un control. Ca niste oaspeti nepoftiti care te hipnotizeaza. Ca un sarpe de care nu iti este frica dar care te musca si te amorteste cu veninul sau.


Confession: I am actually missing the childhood I never had. As simple or as stupid as this might seem it is true. And by saying it I feel more naked than I have ever been. This is so true that it is not just a thought thrown around in the middle of the night but the actual underlying theme of my life. I am just an empty shell. My emotional development got stuck at about 4 years old between my mother’s cancer and my father’s cold reaction to it. Now I am a rough person. Just as rough as my (let’s call it) childhood was. Underneath the roughness there is nothing. Just as my childhood was a big nothing. Apparently I am an adult; my blood tests came in today – I am healthy, what a surprise! But more than this I am a child that never grew up; never was ready to grow. More responsible than I ever should have been. And still it is a sham. It really is. All I truly want is to live my childhood. The way it should had been lived. Being cared for and nurtured with gigantic amounts of love but zero cares and responsibilities. I need a loving mother and a generous father. I need to be a spoiled little brat who gets everything. Even the chance to express himself and to compare himself to others. Even dare to be better than others and brag about it. I need to be childish and childlike. I need to grow up into a heathy teenager. I need to be encouraged to take on the world. To drive sports cars and dangerous motorcycles. To go on adventures. To embrace the love of a beautiful woman. To dream. To have memories. To cherish life. To cherish love. To feel rich. To feel alive.

I reached an age where I have loved and lost. Where I worked hard and fought dearly. A hard life full of struggle and discipline. Always thinking this would be a winning strategy. I must now admit it was always a loss. Even from the start. All work was in vain because it wasn’t about work or struggle. It was about covering up the mess my life truly is. Hiding it from everybody, including from myself. There was always an inexplicable sadness in me. An inner crying that made no sense. But it does now. And it explains so many situations that left me perplexed; it explains the pain, the inadequacy and the numbness.

I am in the search of happiness. I always were. But now I realise I need it the right way: with full service history. I need to live what was not lived. How to do it? Don’t really know. It might take a lifetime to figure it out.

The saints

Take a good look at the lives of the saints. Most of them had suffered terrifying deaths. That just shows how the world truly operates: punishing the good ones in the worst possible ways. This would be a nice piece of fiction. But it rings so true for most of us from time to time. And all the other times we are deceiving ourselves at the shrine of illusion. Just swallowing a “truth” because it flatters us. When are we going to open our eyes and close our hearts to the flattering? When are we going to make the rules, as opposed to breaking or bending them?

An ocean of love and still I would be thirsty…

Forgetting is losing your mind

Through the happening of the happenings life throws some hard blows that make you drop defenceless to your knees. Then you feel the pain. And since you decide this is no fun you engage in forgetting. Forgetting all that is causing the pain to flourish. Getting over with everything that hurts.

No sooner than later you discover it works. Gradually the pain goes. Although at the beginning it was seemingly unbearable it is no longer what it used to be. Precariously fading we are tired of it and seek the comfort of a safe numbness.

In this numbness we also fade. As all of who we are. We might call it getting old. This is where you realize that you not only forgot the pain or part of it but you forgot many other things. Some excitement, some nice quotes from a book or a movie that at other times you found particularly appropriate to the intense discussion you had with friends on a Friday evening, some memories you were always found of and that you used to always go to for no apparent reason, some feelings for the intense green of a mountain forest, some of the taste of your favorite foods.

All of life slowly fades away when you forget. And along with it, if not actually starting with it, there fades your mind. Given the state of it it is useless to start to learn something new. With forgetting you also lose a part of your mind that becomes crippled. Like a broken bone that although healed still hurts and decrees no effort on behalf of it. Another reminder that we are not getting any younger. Probably my urge to get a motorcycle will soon fade as well; or become a desperate clinging instead the excitement that it is.

Absolute love?

Somewhere between highs and lows in love, scarced by unitary bursts on highly inflammable gulps of excitements lies the plateau of detached observance. A place of cold questionings. Not cold as in desperately depressed or highly unattached emotionally but in cold as in listening to a song at 4 AM to fully consider its beauty while the world is asleep. An objective absolution of a moment called present and of a silence similar to a isolation of the facing experience. In this place the question arise: is there absolute love?

The highest high in love entices a further developement. It has in its core an incompleteness. It begs you to go for more. But does it reach an absolute? Is there such thing as a complete moment of absolute love that reaches the end of the Universe to freeze time and space in perfection? Is there a key to an eternity of absolute love?

The experience does not show it. Perhaps it is necessary to go outside empirical, in a philosophical time congruence of apriori and aposteriori. Still such procedure will prove nuisance.

All I know is I would call such place home. And for the first time I will feel I belong to something or someplace.