XANTIPA 2.
English version. Romanian version, below.

    I have never felt more abstracted, more alone, more sad and bitter. And it is so very difficult for me to express what or how I feel, or the intensity of these moments that doesn’t listen to the law of the irreversible pass of time, as it’s defined in any serious physics book, and I sometimes realize that time doesn’t pass at all, though sometimes it seems to me a few hours passed by… in fact those were mere seconds. And it’s a common thing to say that time heals and helps you detach... but it really doesn’t. On the contrary, each day I wake up feeling that everything happening to me is more and more intense and hard to take, and feeling that, instead of healing, it gets worse, and instead of moving away from what seemed to be, at some moment in time, just an unpleasant moment of my life… I keep going back to it and, instead of surpassing it, I keep seeing it in front of me. Time flows backwards, when it decides to pass. Most often I feel stuck, like a stranded boat, led by a clumsy steersman in the muddy waters of an unknown river, stuck in a continuous present, without being able to see any potential future, and unable to leave behind of detach from this sad past that keeps following me every second of my life. I once could distinguish between the value of a certain time, and just another moment, as I somehow had given a greater emotional meaning to those moments, compared to other times of my life, and I shun from using that word too often, as it seemed to me to be an epithet, and I was trying to conserve a reference point value of the moments that kept coming and going… and everything that is happening now just seems to be an endless... moment.

    I don’t know if the lines I intend to write may be taken as a confession, or as an autobiography, or even a failed attempt of catharsis – in hope of an even temporary detachment of all things happening at this time. It may very well be that it is all fiction, an attentively calculated one, with a plan and notes, with a gradually rising suspense and a predictable happy ending… it might be a novel as many others. It may possibly be the last lines of a finished man, who doesn’t believe in anything anymore, and who is waiting for the fulfilling of his destiny. It might be a will.

    While ironically smiling (or at least I think she was, as I didn’t see her while saying this), she had told me one to write a novel, explaining that maybe this was my destiny- to write something memorable for mankind, from all this story. My first reaction was rejection, refusing, suspecting her of the fact that she was only amusing herself at my expense, as she had done so many times before. Nevertheless, her words lingered in my mind in the days to come after that talk, and at one point I was really taking into consideration the thought of writing something, not as much for me of others involved, but for people who, at this time, don’t even realize what is actually going on, and by the time they will understand, my fate in this world will be long ended. How could I transcribe what I feel, when I feel my days are numbered, and I know my time is shorter and shorter, and there is no turning back, and I feel condemned, deep inside me? How could I write something definite when I feel incapable of translating into words ideas and feelings that I don’t fully understand myself? When those around me are not capable of understanding something I myself cannot, or they put their hopes in something I have given up a long time ago? Which words to choose, what moments to mention, how to avoid surpassing barriers I myself cannot surpass in my own self? How to define the undefinable? It will be a real challenge to try to write something, to try to express something I cannot think of in a detached and serene manner, so I could start writing about it, stating what I have to say. But… the question is: what do I really have to say? I am tempted to give up, to avoid any more attempts, making up excuses in my mind that maybe what I have to say has been already said thousands of times, in thousands of languages, fearing I will lamentably fail in capturing what could make everything sound like new. Sadly, Tristan and Iseult had lived their story a long time ago, and in Romeo and Juliet’s case there’s nothing more to say. It all sometimes seems to be a mere repetition of other repetitions, dusty old ones. Why would anything I have to say be special? Or us and our story? This may be the key question.

    I do not know whether I will fill more than a few pages and abandon afterwards, or whether I will be stubborn in my desire to write, without caring about what is going on. I don’t know if this will be a novel, fiction or confession. I sometimes remember simplistic interviews with writers who afforded to pencil new worlds and new universes, with tens, thousands of characters who interacted amongst them in such a way that you needed a dictionary of characters to keep up with the vertiginous rhythm that the action was unfolding in… and the question was something like: “And what will happen to character X?” leading to a slightly dazed face of the questioned… “I can’t tell yet, I haven’t gotten to write that part yet.” I do not know what will happen to these lines swirling in my mind either, whether they will lead me to an answer, or whether it all would end abruptly.

    I somehow feel indebted to try, to build up the courage to sit at the table and try to lay the first few words on paper. But I feel overwhelmed by the cold immensity of the sheet of paper, by the silent expectancy of words which seems to erupt from me and now, in the decisive moment, I am trying to postpone, to do all those little things that eat up all the time you want them to, from an unconscious hesitation (or supposedly subconscious)... as I see no purpose yet, I do not believe in the fact that I could sketch something. Maybe I just am selfish and I want to keep it all for myself, or maybe I am just fooling myself in believing that I have something to say. I feel distracted and incapable. I keep pacing the floor with small steps in the room where once there was so much life, and now there is no sound, transforming it slowly into a temple of silence and remembering, and to which I have so often tried to give up because of the ghostly images going round in front of my eyes... and yet I can’t. It’s like I buried myself in oblivion, I would give up remembering, I would be in abandonment. I am oscillating between two worlds, I am swinging between the need to share what I think I am feeling, and the inability to decide to at least try to… And I cannot even say that tomorrow is another day, a new one, a day when I will find something new to do, something to distract me, to make me forget about myself. But it doesn’t happen… a new day, the same well established routine, same feelings, same gestures… repetitively. Just like being condemned to live over and over again one day, one hour, one moment. I know that, no matter what I claim, whatever motivation I should find, as much as I would try to avoid it, I would sooner or later find myself in front of the same table, with the same blank piece of paper, with the same urge to break these invisible chains around me that make me ignore what is inside me.. and facing the same dilemma: what do I have to say?

     I had tried a while back to write a children’s story. I had already sketched in my mind the frame of the story that would be easily understood, and somehow attractive to any 2 or 3 year old… I picked up the characters and the place of action… and I was afraid to write it. I have no idea why. And just the same, each day passes by I promise to myself that I would write about these, because I know that someone in this whole wide world is waiting for it, and maybe the addressee will enjoy it, or at least I would like him to... And every day I procrastinate and find reasons not to write it, to ignore it, to avoid it, to pretend there are many other things more important to do, although most often I stiffen in the same corner of the room, with the same photo in my hand.. What am I running from? I don’t know, and I sometimes wonder I don’t write it, why I don’t do what I was said to do, though joking. Am I afraid? I have no idea. But I do hope it will not be the same case, in continuing with the same procrastination, and postpone that moment when I would sit down, and start writing. I do hope to find out the answer to this situation.

    I feel so very tired…

@special thanks again to Oana , for all her support , patience , understanding and help.Not only to have this in English, but as a whole.

versiunea in limba romana.

Nicicand nu m-am simtit mai ingandurat, mai singur , trist si mai innegurat. Si imi vine cumplit de greu sa exprim ce simt sau cum simt, intensitatea acestor clipe care nu respecta nici o lege a trecerii implacabile a timpului asa cum e ea definita in orice manual serios de fizica, si imi dau seama ca uneori nu mai trec de loc si desi uneori par a trece ore, in fapt nu sunt decat simple secunde. Si e banal cand se zice ca trecerea aceasta a timpului alina si te face sa te detasezi.. dar nu se intampla asa. Din contra , in fiecare zi ma trezesc ca ceea ce se intampla cu mine sau in sinea mea , e tot mai intens si mai greu de suportat , ca in loc sa treaca se acutizeaza, ca in loc sa ma indepartez de ceea ce parea a fi la un momentdat  doar un moment neplacut din viata mea.. ma reintorc catre el si in loc sa il las in urma, il vad in fata mea. Timpul curge invers, atunci cand se hotaraste totusi sa mai si curga.Cel mai adesea ma simt impotmolit, ca o barca esuata condusa de un carmaci nepriceput in apele tulburi ale unui rau necunoscut, blocat intr-un prezent continuu fara sa vad nici un fel de potential viitor si incapabil sa las in urma sau sa ma detasez de acest trist trecut care ma urmareste clipa de clipa. Candva faceam o distinctie intre valoarea unei clipe si a unui moment, cumva dadusem o mai mare incarcatura emotionala  clipelor  comparativ cu alte momente din viata mea, si ma feream sa folosesc cuvantul prea des, parandu-mi cumva un epitet, incercam sa ii pastrez o valoare de etalon a momentelor care veneau si se duceau.... si tot ce se intampla acum imi pare a fi doar o interminabila si fara de sfarsit.. clipa.

Nu stiu daca randurile pe care intentionez sa le scriu  pot fi luate ca o confesiune, sau ca o autobiografie sau o incercare nereusita de catharsis, in speranta unei detasari fie si momentane de ce se intampla. Posibil sa fie totul doar o fictiune, atent calculata, cu notite si plan , cu un suspans crescand gradual si un previzibil final fericit, sa fie un roman, ca atatea altele. Posibil insa sa fie doar ultimele randuri ale unui om sfarsit, care nu mai crede in nimic si care nu isi asteapta decat indeplinirea destinului.  Un testament. 

Zambind cumva ironic (cred, pentru ca nu o vedeam in momentul respectiv), imi spusese ea candva sa scriu un roman, ca poate asta mi-a fost destinul , sa scriu ceva memorabil pentru omenire, din toata povestea asta. Prima reactie a fost de recul, de a refuza, banuind-o de faptul ca incerca doar sa se amuze pe seama mea, cum facuse de atatea ori pana atunci, dar cele zise de ea mi-au ramas undeva in minte in zilele care au trecut dupa acea discutie si ma gandeam la un momentdat tot mai serios sa incerc sa scriu ceva, nu atat pentru mine sau pentru altii, cat pentru cei care in acest moment nici nu isi dau seama ce se intampla, si cand vor putea sa inteleaga singuri..destinul meu pe aceasta lume se va fi incheiat de mult. Dar cum sa transcriu ceea ce simt, cand imi simt zilele numarate, cand stiu ca timpul meu e tot mai scurt si nu mai e nici o cale de intoarcere si in sinea mea sunt deja damnat si condamnat .Cum sa scriu ceva concret cand ma simt incapabil sa transpun in cuvinte idei si sentimente pe care nu le inteleg eu pe deplin in primul rand? Cand cei din jurul meu nu sunt capabili sa inteleaga ceva ce nu inteleg eu in primul rand, sau spera in ceva in ce eu am renuntat de mult sau mai sper? Ce cuvinte sa alegi, ce momente sa pomenesti, cum sa eviti depasirea unor bariere pe care nici in sinea ta nu le poti depasi? Cum sa definesti indefinibilul?  Va fio o reala provocare sa incerc sa scriu ceva, sa incerc sa exprim ceva la care nu ma pot gandi detasat si senin , astfel incat sa incep a scrie , a spune ce am de spus. Dar.. ce am de spus totusi? .Ma simt tentat a renunta, a evita orice incercare, scuzandu-ma in sinea mea ca poate ce as putea eu spune s-a mai spus de mii de ori , in mii de limbi, temandu-ma ca voi esua lamentabil in a surprinde  ceea ce ar trebui sa faca totul sa fie nou. Din pacate Tristan si Isolda si-au trait de mult povestea lor si in Romeo si Julieta nu mai e nimic de spus nou. Uneori pare ca totul e doar repetitie a unor repetitii , si ele deja prafuite. Cu ce ar fi mai special ce am eu de spus? Cu ce as fi eu mai special? Sau noi si povestea noastra? Aceasta poate este intrebarea cheie.

                Nu stiu daca voi depasi mai mult de cateva pagini si voi abandona, sau daca ma voi incapatana sa scriu, fara sa imi pese de ce se intampla. Nu stiu daca va fi roman, fictiune sau confesiune. Uneori imi aduc aminte de interviuri simpliste luate unor scriitori care isi permiteau sa creioneze noi lumi si universuri, cu zeci, sute de personaje care interactionau intre ele intr-o asemenea maniera incat aveai nevoie de dictionar de personaje ca sa poti pastra pasul cu ritmul ametitor in care se desfasura actiunea… si intrebarea era ceva de genul :” Si ce se va intampla cu personajul X?” ducand la o figura usor mirata a celui chestionat.. “ nu stiu sa va zic inca, nu am ajuns sa scriu partea respectiva”. Nu stiu nici eu ce se va intampla cu aceste randuri pe care le am in minte, daca vor duce la un raspuns sau totul se va termina abrupt. 

           Cumva , ma simt dator sa incerc, sa imi fac curaj sa ma asez la masa si sa incerc sa pun primele cuvinte pe hartie. Dar ma simt coplesit de imensitatea rece a colii de hartie, de asteptarea tacuta a cuvintelor care pareau sa erupa din mine si acum , in momentul decisiv , incerc sa aman, sa fac cele o suta de mici lucruri care iti mananca cat de mult timp vrei, dintr-o ezitare inconstienta ( sau constient pretinsa) … pentru ca inca nu vad nici un scop, nu cred in faptul ca as putea cumva sa schitez ceva. Poate sunt de fapt doar egoist si vreau sa tin doar pentru mine, poate doar ma amagesc crezand ca am ceva de spus. Ma simt distras, ma simt incapabil. In pasi marunti masor camera in care era candva atat de multa viata si acum nu se mai aude nici un sunet, transformandu-se pe nesimtite intr-un templu tacerii si al aducerii aminte, si la care am incercat de atatea ori sa renunt din cauza imaginilor fantomatice care mi se perinda prin fata ochilor..si totusi nu pot. E ca si cum m-as ingropa in uitare, as renunta sa imi amintesc, ar fi un abandon. Pendulez intre doua lumi, pendulez intre nevoie sa de a impartasi ce cred ca eu simt, si neputinta de a ma hotara sa incerc macar… Si nici macar nu pot sa zic ca maine e o alta zi, o noua zi, in care voi gasi ceva nou de facut, ceva care sa ma distraga, sa ma faca sa uit de mine.Dar nu.. o noua zi, aceeasi rutina bine stabilita, aceleasi sentimente, aceleasi gesturi.. repetitiv. Ca si cum ai fi condamant sa traiesti o singura zi, un singur ceas, un singur moment, incontinuu. Stiu ca indiferent ce as pretinde, ce motivatie mi-as gasi, cat de mult as incerca sa evit, maine ma voi regasi mai devreme sau mai tarziu in fata aceleiasi mese cu aceeasi coala de hartie goala in fata ochilor, cu aceeasi nevoie impetuoasa de a rupe o data aceste lanturi invizibile care ma fac sa ignor ce e in mine  si in fata aceleasi dileme.. ce am eu de zis?

                Incercasem acum ceva vreme sa scriu o povestioara pentru copii , schitasem deja in minte scheletul unei intamplari care sa fie usor de inteles sau macar sa fie atractiva pentru orice pustiulica de 2-3 ani, imi alesesem personajele si locul actiunii… si mi-a fost frica sa o scriu. Nu stiu de ce. Si in fiecare zi imi promit ca o seara o voi scrie, pentru ca stiu ca e asteptata undeva in lumea asta larga, sau macar destinatarul ei se va bucura , cred eu, sa o auda.. si in fiecare zi aman sa o scriu, in fiecare zi imi gasesc pretexte sa ignor, sa evit, sa ma fac ca sunt alte lucruri mai importante de facut, desi cel mai adesea intepenesc ore intregi in acelasi colt de camera cu aceeasi fotografie in mana… de ce fug? Nu stiu, si ma intreb adeseori de ce nu o scriu, de ce nu fac ceea ce ..tot cumva in gluma mi s-a propus. Mi-e frica? Nu stiu. Dar sper sa nu fie cazul si aici, sa aman in fiecare zi acel moment in care ar trebui sa ma asez, si sa incep sa scriu. Sper sa aflu raspunsul la aceasta situatie.

                Ma simt cumplit de obosit.