Primesc, acum ceva vreme, un scurt text de la un bun prieten. Textul e asezat, frumusel, intre ghilimele – deh, prietenului meu ii place sa se autociteze. (Banuiesc ca e si asta o forma de orgoliu). M-am abtinut cu mare greu sa nu-i spun: “vai ce prostie ai scris!” (sau ceva de genul), dar am facut totusi un comentariu vag ironic din care nici eu n-as fi inteles mare lucru. El mi-a raspuns cu un smiley face – si ce stranii sint aceste smiley faces-poker faces – iar eu m-am multumit sa-mi inchipui ca nu s-a suparat pe mine. Azi, scotocind prin hartiile din laptopul meu, gasesc – surpriza! – textul cu pricina pe una dintre ele. Asadar eu eram autorul! Va marturisesc sincer ca nu mi-a luat mai mult de cateva secunde sa-mi dau seama de cat de bun era, de fapt, textul. De asta am zis mereu – prima impresie e foarte inselatoare…

a creature called time

it’s the mornings when i feel it the most
the heavy shadow of years past
growing threateningly like a deamon’s wings
i feel older than the universe
with every breath of air that forces itself into my lungs
like a resolute woman trying a pair of shoes
too small to fit her.
sometimes it feels like I am breathing you
all naked, with your smile filling my windpipes
like forgotten notes of a chopin nocturne
being slowly downloaded into my blood
ever so painfully
and then, finally, it’s the afternoons
when young girls
wearing red sneakers and airy dresses
pass me by
while their scarves wave at me with indecent irony
it’s the hours when driven mad by heat
dogs chase yellow taxis full with perfume and plans
for the evening dinner
it’s the hours when I choke on your dark hair
trying to figure it all out
what’s left of everything and which way to go
and the sounds, the heat and my thoughts of you
fade ever so painfully
slowly breaking down into something else
as if my whole life were a complicated digestive process
of a strange creature
called time.