Deblocaj

Mi e dor de minti bolnave,

Dar bolnave pe gustul meu –

Care te intarata si ti striga sufletul,

Te rascolesc si te framanta,

Pana ajungi sa devii altcineva cand rasare luna.

Sa aiba aroma de vin rosu si un parfum de tigara fumata pe jumatate,

Cu ochi intaratati, scaldati in sclipiri de curcubeu,

Si glas ca de ropot. ca de vant furtunos intr o zi de octombrie.

Sa desenati idei in aer,

Care sa prinda aripi si le observi amortit cum ies in zbor din cochilie,

Formand un haos dansant in jurul nostru.

Mi e dor sa vorbesc cu cineva pana cand soarele adoarme,

Pe o plaja atat de pustie incat sa prinzi oftatul firelor de nisip contopindu se in calmul marii.

Mi e dor de o conversatie diafana, precum o catifea scumpa –

Sa o atingi usor de obraz, sa te dezmierde in jos pe gat,

Si sa o lasi sa se odihneasca in dreptul inimii –

Sa ti tina de cald in zilele adancite de singuratate.

E frumos si rar, e altceva – nu crezi?

Cand o persoana iti aprinde sufletul si ti invie spiritul,

Chiar si doar pentru o conversatie.

— mai ales pentru o conversatie —

Dezechilibru

Simt ca ma sufoc de sentimente. Sunt iar in cosmarul de la cinci ani, cand ma incurcam in plapuma si visam ca o mare de alb ma striveste. E aceeasi panica constanta, acelasi junghi, aceeasi gheara nemiloasa care-mi consuma sufletul. Doar ca atunci, ma trezeam si totul in jur capata claritate. Dadeam plapuma la o parte si ziua putea sa inceapa. Acum, nu. Acum ma ridic din pat inca infasurata in tumult, si-l tin dupa mine toata ziua. Il trag prin cafenele, pe strazile murdare, adun tot gunoiul si praful scarilor de bloc, strang frunze de mult uitate si mutre ofilite, iar la inceput de noapte trantesc totul pe saltea si raman acolo. Imi aprind o tigara si inhalez vacarmul din capul meu, dar ramane blocat in gat. Expir nimic si inghit tot, iar nefericirea din pat rade.

Sunt prea multa. Am colectat un ocean vast de emotii, trairile mele se impleticesc bete in adancul meu, intr-un vacarm de nedescris. Nu ma eliberez de nimic, sunt ca un burete. Strang, strang, strang, precum o femeie singura intr-o casa antica de sute de ani, cu vrafuri de ziare si cani de ceai cu urme de ruj dintr-o alta viata.

Rad, dar nu e rasul meu. Imi vine sa urlu, dar privesc in gol. Si daca zic, lumea asculta si-mi raspunde. Dar gheara e tot acolo si eu ma simt ca Ana lui Manole, in spatele unui zid, blocata si uitata, privita cu mila, o poveste spusa incomplet.

Ah, si nu, nu pandemia e de vina.

5 o’clock tea

A-nceput de ieri sa cada

cate-un fulg de apatie.

S-a asezat, si-a ramas

pe umeri –

nescuturat.

Am incercat sa-mi adun din sange stropi de energie,

sa-i dau branci cu buricele degetelor,

dar am ramas cu mana in aer, suspendata de invizibil,

realizand ca n-avea rost,

sau scop.

Era doar un automatism ,

si motivatia lipsea cu desavarsire.

De ce s-o fac.

Daca nu vreau.

Ce sa fac.

Daca nu-mi doresc

Nimic

Ceva anume

Ce.

iar

Cateodata-mi apare melancolia pe buze,

sau tristetea in privire,

dar din cand in cand se mai strecoara si apatia printre coaste.

E atat de subtila ca nici n-o simt

pana nu se instaleaza cu totul si-mi aplatizeaza pieptul,

imi blocheaza simtirile si-mi trimite emotiile la plimbare –

in parc sau pe bulevard.

Pleaca si tristetea o data cu ele, suspinand adanc, de mana cu melancolia,

care o trage cu-n suras amar si ma priveste printre gene.

Dar niciuna nu sufla un cuvant,

nu mai e loc de vorbe sau soapte,

nu mai e rost de nimic.

Totul e acaparat de firele ei lungi de par matasos,

letargia frumoasa si calda, ca o boare de vara,

racoaroasa precum adierea unei dimineti de toamna,

ce ma impresoara ca o patura pufoasa,

si ma apara de mine, ce-i al meu si ce-i al tau, al vostru si-al lor.

Totul e de prisos, mai putin scrisul –

literele negre pe fundalul alb,

scrijelite cu degete amortite.

Doar.

Atat.

Kriminal

Te privesc printre aburii cafelei. Incerci sa ma imbeti cu vin, dar cuvintele tale sunt de ajuns. Am obosit de atatea vorbe. Cuvintele tale se agata de oasele mele intr-o incercare disperata de a nu ma pierde. Isi infig dintii si ghearele ascutite in pielea mea ; taisul lor ma arde prin vene, dar fara folos. Te uiti la mine, ma sorbi din priviri, dar ceva lipseste. Ma vrei cu totul, dar eu nu mai am ce sa-ti dau. Doar o alta cana de cafea din ibricul ce se raceste usor pe  aragazul murdar. Ti-e dor de mine, mi-e dor de noi, ne e dor de alte zile cu soare, dar afara e furtuna. Vantul se zbate si-mi deschide furios geamurile. Imi ia pe sus firele de par razlete, scrumul de tigara si lasa in urma lui doar frig. Cred ca daca ne-ar picta cineva acum, tabloul ar plange.

Deci?

Vinul e rosu, precum sangele din obrajii tai. Fumam, tu razi, dar iti vad maxilarul cum se inclesteaza. Ochii se framanta, emotiile se zbat sa iasa la suprafata, dar zidul din privirea ta le opreste.

Mi ai zis ca azi e ultima zi, azi te sinucizi. Sau poate e noapte? Dimineata tarzie? Timpul e irelevant, oricum, cand nu mai ai planuri.

Si totusi, de ce esti aici?

Cum de ce, imi zici. Pentru tine, sa te mai vad inca o data, sa te mai fac sa gemi, sa ne mai imbatam cu rasaritul.

Dar de ce? Oricum nimic nu are sens.

Razi iar, si degetele tale imi mangaie fruntea obosita.

Nu te inteleg, dar nu e nevoie. E o noapte de betie, de dragoste si fum, din care amandoi ne vom trezi. Sau nu.

Ma iei la dans, pe melodii lente si triste, la lumina semi opaca si tremuranda a felinarului care se oglindeste in fereastra mea murdara. Imi spui ca ma iubesti, dar nu ma strangi in brate. Doar ma atingi firav, de parca eu sunt cea care se va sparge curand. Sunt soapte furate, pierdute in noapte. Respiratia ta e plapanda, intrerupta de tigara aproape terminata. Nu stiu de ce mereu iti place sa simti filtrul in plamani. Dar ce conteaza, oricum..

Te intinzi pe pat si ma cuprinde privirea ta in ceata. Nu esti al meu, dar vei ramane o parte din mine.

Acum, daca vrei sa mori, fie..cine esti tu, cine sunt eu, sa ne oprim destinul? Totusi..

..

Dimineata e rece, cafeaua neagra si fierbinte. Tigara o fumezi pe fuga, de parca ea o sa dispara pe usa si nu tu, cu o sarutare furata. Mi te pierzi in multime.

Ai murit sau nu?

This is me saying

I m torn between smashing things to pieces

And pouring my heart out

I m torn between boxing and hitting until it bleeds

And taking a walk ( on the wild side)

I m torn between the unsaid

And the chaos

How many ways can you kill a man?

How many ways can you outgrow your emotions?

I m not good at this

And I excel

Too many hurricanes at once

I m too much

But also an empty shell

Should I replace my emotions

Or just let them unwind?

“Tell my baby I ve gotta go

No, I won t say goodbye

Cuz this is the day I die”

Met Amor Phosis

Sometimes you re so angry you wanna smash it to pieces

Just to see it being destroyed beyond repair

Just to see the blisters in the air

Decomposing

In particles

In small parts

In bits and pieces

And maybe along with them

My anger will dissipate, too.

Sometimes I just wanna see the world burn

Because I m tired of the fighting

The suffering

And the struggle

‘Where s the man I thought myself to be?

Met Amor Phosis – with age comes change’

Sometimes it s just better to write

Nothing at all

And everything

Unreadable words

Unstable feelings

Everything and nothing

Just write

No words forgotten

No emotions dealt with

Nothing understood.

..You never got my point of view

Anyway.

self declaration of love

I love how she drinks her coffee black, but adds a little bit of cinammon and vanilla.
I love how her nails wear that faded shade of blue, due to her hair colour mixing with the nail polish.
I love how she moans in the morning after her first sip of coffee.
I love how she breaks every rule except for her own
I love how she gets lost when she dances, like the whole world just ceases to exist and the only thing that matters in that moment is the music.
I love how she wears her freedom, doing whatever she feels like, without bothering about others’ opinion.
I love how she goes out in the middle of the night and the sunrise catches her on the beach.
I love how she lives like there’s no tomorrow.
And the most, I love that she is me.

Thank you, Queen!

My dear Queen,

Has anyone thanked you yet for writing “Cursed Child”? No? They keep criticizing it, don’t they? Saying how “it’s not a novel” (well, it’s a play, what did you expect?) or comparing it to a bad written fanfiction..But these people keep forgetting that you, just like Harry, didn’t choose the easy way. You chose the right one, the hardest one. It would have been very simple to write another novel, another story. But you wanted something different, better, never encountered before. Well, my Queen, in my opinion, you did well. You did better and amazing and freaking fantastic!

 

“Cursed child” is about what happens after the happy ending. It’s about struggles, heartbreaks, friendship, adulthood, prejudicies and even politics. It’s about love, change and human nature. And characters, which people keep forgetting they are not only humans, but twenty years older. Maybe not always wiser, but changed.

People expected “Cursed Child” to be the eight story, with the same characters and personality. Well, those people forget how reality works and how age reshapes us. How Harry wasn’t perfect, Ginny was always, in a way, the outcast, Hermione was pretty much predictable and prejudices rarely die.

I think those who criticize CC keep forgetting they had flaws, just like everyone else. Still, for me, they couldn’t be more perfect.

We LOVE to denounce, but has ANYONE ever thanked JK Rowling for giving us a real piece of the wizarding world?! Not a fanfic, not snippets or Rita Skeeter’s articles. A story, a full blown, AMAZINGLY written play, which has a much more meaning than anyone has noticed. It’s all between the lines, you know? (Many, many lines, since it’s a play, dear people)

I won’t give any spoilers ( KeepTheSecrets! ) but I’ll tell you this : it’s a gorgeous play in which I got lost just like in any other Harry Potter book. It gives you so many feelings and it brings you home. It’s funny, I enjoyed even those parts which some people considered weird (like the trolley witch), I cried at the end (thank Salazar for having two cats who cuddled with me while I was sobbing over the book) and I absolutely loved the character’s development! All of them.

Thank you, Queen. For bringing me back, for making me laugh, cry and hug the book at my chest at 2:30 in the morning, unable to sleep, with emotions running through my veins and with the biggest, goofiest smile on my face. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

I love you, Joanne. Forevemore.

 

Yours, always,

Bridget.