Things of Life

After they went a few times around the Earth, two former lovers met by accident (more or less), in a place they knew: "See, you said forever... where is your love now...?", he asked her gently, with a slight admonishing tone. "You should not be surprised... You left first... This type of love is more conditional, we like it or not... I loved you then, but your leaving showed me an image of you I did not recognize, and ultimately love did not recognize... There is a long and painful processing, and once it's done even nostalgia would not stay..."  "Yes... I regretted my actions..." "And how could this love be, when one no longer chooses to be in...? There are always 2 in Eros, you know..." "I did not forget you..." "Hmm... mere knowledge of me being in some shadowy chamber of your heart is not enough. There is no life or love this way..." "I understand... Maybe you can still find this love somewhere though..." ...

When watching comfortably its relentless waves... the ocean has capability to bring a human into poetic predisposition.  Look at it from a different perspective, and the ocean frightens. Its imensity overwhelming. Any of us can get lost in it, for good.  But there are a million things in which a human can get lost. Lost in universality. Everything for everybody. Sameness...

Breathing is different in water.  When immersed in a new medium, you function according to different rules...

Obisnuiam sa ma lupt cu destinul, sa forțez note, ca un erou mitologic ce ar fi lăsat in urma o poveste arhetipala. Credeam ca intensitatea unei dorințe or zvâcnirea pasionala sunt in sine chestiuni de destin, forte de care trebuie sa te lași condus în pofida oricărui obstacol. Si se întâmpla ca lucrurile sa iasă chiar așa, oarecum forțate, obosite după a lupta grea. Privite dintr-un anumit unghi si de la o anume distanță, păreau lipsite de acea frumusețe a naturaleții, a lucrurilor picate din cer, întâmplate fără sa miști un deget, sa te surprindă... Acum nu mă mai lupt cu morile de vânt, ori ca porcul cu dovlecii, deși am eu acolo un spirit de tenacitate unde găsesc ca e cazul. Dar îmi place sa observ mersul destinului, ce se leagă si ce se dezleagă, si accept lucrurile astea ca fiind cele mai de dorit, si chiar cele mai frumoase...

There are the rocks, petrified, unshaken sand, and gold.  I rely on consistency as if it's my daily water. My air, even.  A couple of pillars, a canopy, a door... then I can shed a layer of my skin. Outside, everything moves, like the winds...

As far as I know, I never ran over or hit an animal while driving. Not even a small rodent that jumps all of sudden from a roadside shrub. I was spared, I guess, because the road is full of such little animals killed by cars. In many cases, avoidance is impossible.  Today I saw a dead squirrel in the middle of the road. Besides pity, what caught my attention was her white paw lifted up, as if in her last moment of life she waved at someone above... Moreover, it seemed like she was waving at everyone who was passing, so I stepped on the breaks and paused a bit (I could). Not sure why I am writing more often about death. Maybe because it's familiar and strangely warm: I've known it early, and lately people I know are dying or nearing death, so it's part of... life. A fragile one. I can wave them goodbye with serenity, so knowing I lack power to change...  Sands are sinking and I am vulnerable...