Once (upon a Dream)

I'd like, at least once, to watch the sunset with you. Sitting on top of the hill, on the grass cooling after the summer's day fire. Fingers intertwined, souls at peace.

Shh, just watch.

I'd like, at least once, to listen to the sea with you. Feet buried in sand, the breeze shivering on my back. Waves breaking and soothing, seagulls mourning.

Shh, just listen.

I'd like, at least once, to spend my life with you.

Shh, just dream.

Photo by Anubis Racer

Turning It

— Cum mă simt? Mă simt ca un om căruia i se aduce aminte că este numărul 999 pe lista de priorități a celei mai importante persoane din viața sa.

— Pfff...

— Doar știi că dacă de la mine nu vrei un răspuns sincer, cel mai bine e să nu întrebi. Dar ai dreptate, poate ar trebui să-mi aduci aminte mai des.

Photo by Jenni Tapanila

Matei Visniec

Om-univers. Un cosmos de umbrele. Mic în fața lui, de parcă abia te-a scuipat pământul. Strivește prin simpla prezență. Umilit și ... obidit, nu offensé. 
Vorba fără cusur, curgând spiralat, te trage după sine într-un vârtej de gânduri, idei, emoții, istorii închipuite și ne-.
După ce-l cunoști, îți vine să pui pana/creionul/stiloul/pixul jos. Definitiv. Să trântești tastatura de să-i sară-n țăndări toate aceste pătrățele încrustate cu semnele magice care la el uite cum se înșiră și la tine -- uite ce mizerii lasă în urmă!
Un om-umbrelă care nu s-a lăsat îngrădit de o existență-pantof.

Turn Back Time

Frecvent sunt întrebată unde m-aș opri dacă aș putea da timpul înapoi. M-am gândit mult, de parcă ar fi fost o realitate tangibilă. Nicăieri, m-am hotărât într-un final. Nu vreau să dau timpul înapoi. Nu vreau să schimb nimic. Suma tuturor experiențelor, bune sau rele, m-a adus aici. Aici îmi e nici bine nici rău, nici cald nici rece. Sau toate laolaltă.
Acum, în schimb, aș întoarce ceasul la azi-dimineață. Azi-dimineață tresărea o aripă de speranță. Azi-dimineață visasem frumos. Azi-dimineață îmi era mai cald în suflet.

Dar acum nu mă mai întreabă nimeni.

"Mine"

When I call you mine, it's not that I consider you mine in any sense of the word.  It's not that I think you'll ever be mine, either. Not like any person could really be owned by another, anyway.
What I mean to say is that you are my love. My light, my hope, my deepest desire. The ocean I want to drown in, the air I wish to breathe, the mountain I dream to conquer.

And when I say I am yours, that is exactly what I mean, in every sense of the word.

fears

...scared
and I am all the way over here
incapable
powerless
useless
I wish I could just hold you tight
like the child that you are
but never want to admit,
always wanting to be strong
always brave
always the one to count on,
run my fingers through your hair
and whisper soft words into your ear
quenching your fears,
"it will be all right," "you will be fine,"
make you feel safe in my arms.
Let yourself go,
abandon your high expectations
of yourself
with me,
It is all right to be scared
sometimes.
You will never seem weak
in my eyes.

This is one of those times
when I would leave behind
for you
anything
everything
If I only knew
it could be

Photo by Arthur-Michael Hutterer

Whys

Grown-ups "never ask you any questions about essential matters. They never say to you, 'What does his voice sound like? What games does he love best? Does he collect butterflies?' Instead, they demand: 'How old is he? How many brothers has he? How much does he weigh? How much money does his father make?' Only from these figures do they think they have learned anything about him ... But certainly, for us who understand life, figures are a matter of indifference."

So, if they ask me why, I will tell them: because he has the softest voice, the most delicate hands, the most contagious smile. Because inside of him lives the tenderest of souls, because running my fingers through his hair feels like walking barefoot through spring grass. Because fire barely matches his passion, and the ocean can compete with the depth of his eyes. Because he thinks as deep as he feels, because he cares too much. Because under his skin smolders desire and his soul is trapped between wavelengths of pain and light.
Because neither name nor age nor status define him.
So, when they tell me I know not about him, I will only smile. I know more than they ever will. I know and love what matters, the elephant inside.

Text and image by Antoine de Saint-Exupery ("Le Petit Prince")

It Comes in Waves

Valuri în spume se revarsă printre ulucile neîngrijite de atâta timp. Am încercat să le mai îngrădesc pe alocuri, dar nu fac față vijeliei. Iată, e potopul lui Noe și eu n-am nici măcar o biată barcă. Cu ideea că am să-mi evoluez o pereche de branhii, am renunțat să le mai stăvilesc. Nu am avut de ales. Nu mi-ai dat de ales. Izbucnește desfrânată din mine toată iubirea ce-ți port. Fără voia-mi, tentacule de speranță îmi sugrumă realitatea. Eruperi de vise mi-acoperă ochii și nu mai văd nimic înafară de tine. Îmi desfac coastele și-ți arăt: Uite, ajunge? Spune-mi, e momentul? Aș vrea să-ți strig: Privește! Pentru tine curge tot acest torent de sânge. Ascultă! Pentru tine bate această inimă nebună care nu mai recunoaște decât vocea ta. Aș vrea s-o smulg și s-o arunc departe, să îi îngrop durerea sub valuri.
Dar tac, înghit în sec și te mint: sunt bine... Tu taci și te prefaci că mă crezi.

Și-atunci îmi scot cuțitul din teacă și îl înfig din nou, cu sete: 

”N-ai voie... ai uitat care era scopul?”

Photo by Jstnrrdn

Eyes Wide Shut

You've asked, "Why me?"

And I would like to give you a smart answer, an all-encompassing one telling you of stars, fate, and previous lives, a mysterious one letting you know how I'm just a silly girl who still believes in magic and true love, a deep and truthful answer that would make you sense that I see perfection in all your flaws.

The truth is all that and more, but explaining feelings feels like a waste of time.

The truth is that, in the beginning, before it all began, it was your eyes... Not their color, their depth. Not that they spoke to me, but that they didn't. A paradox. A challenge. Stories buried, you throwing mouthfuls of smiles over their graves.

Because, you see, I've always had this gift of reading people -- running deep in my bloodline must be the flair of a gypsy foreteller -- but no, not you. Your eyes -- a wall. A sea to drown in. Blue steel to take my breath and cut my vocal chords.

The truth is that, after all this time, your eyes still leave me speechless, and though I know you so much better, they still tell me no stories.

The truth is that I am still learning to read you.

Photo by Asya Schween

Why Things Burn

by Daphne Gottlieb

My fire-eating career came to an end
when I could no longer tell
when to spit and when

to swallow.
Last night in Amsterdam, 
1,000 tulips burned to death.

I have an alibi. When I walked by
your garden, your hand
grenades were in bloom.

You caught me playing
loves me, loves me
not, metal pins between my teeth.

I forget the difference
between seduction
and arson, 

ignition and cognition. I am a girl
with incendiary
vices and you have a filthy never

mind. If you say no, twice, 
it's a four-letter word.
You are so dirty, people have planted

flowers on you: heliotropes. sun-
flowers. You'll take
anything. Loves me, 

loves me not.
I want to bend you over
and whisper: 'potting soil, ' 'fresh

cut.' When you made
the urgent fists of peonies
a proposition, I stole a pair of botanists'

hands. Green. Confident. All thumbs.
I look sharp in garden
shears and it rained spring

all night.1,000 tulips
burned to death
in Amsterdam.

We didn't hear the sirens.
All night, you held my alibis
so softly, like taboos

already broken.