Picaj

I feel it here. Low. Under the ribs? Lower. Strange emotion. Asymptomatic in my illness. For now. I disrobe a day and found I've missed an entire life. Tell myself listen, but don't want, really, to stay. Or does it? How much does the body influence, and how much is it really all just in the mind? The memory of nights lost, and I've written to you already, so many times. Am I projecting? Would be better, perhaps, if I taught myself to keep the body alert and at arm's length. To trust without allowing myself to go to waste. Is everything you're telling me just? You want to run and can't, but the body remembers. Holds. Something, somewhere, still gallops. And what if it had wanted you to stay?
It is not a week for death. I will not let it. I thought the question would echo the same always, regardless of place, but meanwhile, I forgot to remain the same. I look at it now from the private perspective of a new epicenter, but not mine as I was then. And do I have the right to?
Knows what we've lost. The tragedy of fullness reminds one of empties. Full? It's only an illusion. It's only the unexpected. When you choose to live, you don't actually realize you're going to. Or how long it will take. I never liked writing this way. It's too close to the empties. Perhaps I shouldn't have replied. And yet, how much more should I run? Brilliant bird, towards the heavens or for always mid-swan dive?

! [Read In original]
O simt aici. Jos. Între coaste? Mai jos. Sentiment straniu. Bolnav asimptomatic. Momentan. Mă dezbrac de o zi şi constat că am ratat o viaţă. Îmi spun să ascult, dar nu vreau să rămân. Sau vrea? Cât influenţează corpul meu şi cât e mintea? Amintirea unor nopţi pierdute şi ţi-am scris deja de destule ori. Proiectez? Ar fi mai bine dacă aş învăţa cumva să păstrez corpul atent şi la oareşce distanţă. Să mă încred fără a mă lăsa dusă de val. Oare tot ce îmi spui e veridic? Vrei să fugi şi nu poţi, dar corpul îşi aminteşte. Reţine. Ceva, undeva, continuă goana. Şi dacă ai fi vrut să rămâi?
Nu e o săptămână a morţii. Nu am să-i dau eu voie să fie. Am crezut mult că întrebarea va suna la fel mereu şi pretutindeni, doar că interim, am uitat să rămân aceeaşi persoană. Judec acum din perspectiva unui epicentru, dar nu al meu cum eram atunci. Şi oare am dreptul?
Ştie ce am pierdut. Tragedia plinului aminteşte de gol. Plin? E doar iluzie. E doar neaşteptat. Când alegi să trăieşti, nu îţi dai seama că o vei şi face. Sau cât va dura de mult. Nu mi-a plăcut niciodată să scriu aşa. E prea aproape de gol. Ar fi trebuit poate să nu răspund. Şi totuşi cât să mai fug? Pasăre măiastră - spre zare sau de-a pururi în picaj?

I'm sorry, Hive account@holoz0r , it's just easier in Romanian for me. I hope that's alright. :) I feel today much like the old alienated judge in Kieslowski's Trois couleurs : Rouge. Don't ask me why. I go through life mostly, like all women, assuming I'm the girl, but it seems not today. I wanted to say thank you. Writing this gave me an inkling of writing something else.

And you know I can't help myself. It's Tuesday. (I believe). It's Hive account@ablaze's #threetunetuesday, more specifically.

Dvorak feels like safety in a way nobody else quite does. At least for me. Dvorak and Stravinsky, always, like two perfect hummingbirds flying over the abyss. I think it's difficult for me to find calm in things that are truly calming, in people that weren't, in their own lifetime, a little insane.

It would've been Petrushka, but I think I've linked it once before for this occasion. Perhaps years ago. Perhaps as somebody else.

I particularly love the beginning of this. It feels exactly like the sound inside my ribcage when I'm dancing. It's stunning. Quite something.