What happens after hitting Delete

Today  I deleted by mistake all my text messages with you. I was shocked for a second, not knowing if I should feel something about that or not. Afterwards, I just became very sad. I realized that the last piece of you was finally gone. You have been gone for two months already. Your toothbrush and your towel also left immediately. Your Netflix account followed, the bottles of wine and the Nutella jar you bought, every trace of you, everything disappeared so fast it left me naked here in my own home, the home I used to no longer call home. All I was left with were the few photos we took and all the text messages. The “order pizza on your way”, the “I missed you today”, the “where should we go this weekend?”, the “I wish I was in bed with you” all those words that sound so empty but for me they used to be the world.

And today, that world, our world, vanished. Completely.

We don’t talk anymore. You don’t say you miss me anymore, I no longer say I miss you too. Even though I do, baby, so much. I used to find comfort in those stupid old messages, it was my way of going back, my way of bringing you back. I loved reliving everything even though it was such a bad idea and I knew that and I regretted it every single time. But God, it was my heroin.  It was you.

And today, you vanished. Completely.

I realized, though: maybe it wasn’t even them. The messages, or the wine bottles, or the toothbrush. Maybe it wasn’t the fact that you left traces, which I kept following like a lost puppy, hoping I’ll find you again. Maybe it was me, actually, I’m sure it was me. I was the one that overthought everything that happened. I was the one that re-read the “I missed you today” so many times it started to feel like you just wrote it. I was the one that lived our story twice, once when it happened, the second time after you left, I was the one that made me fall in love two times harder, I was the one that broke my heart in the end.  Because I didn’t know where to stop the script. Actually I did, but I couldn’t. You were my heroin.

And we all know what happens when overdosing.

I lost me.

Today, a part of me vanished. The last part with you in it.

And if that’s what it takes in order to bring me back, the old me, then I’m more than willing to let it go.

Today I deleted all my past with you. And it wasn’t by mistake. It was letting go.

When you never got to the "I love you" part

 I might have a lot of issues. It might be my fault. The fact that I never heard “I love you”. The fact that I never said “I love you” even though I did, or at least, I was pretty close. But there comes a time in every girls life when you just jam in your apartment on your favorite song with nothing but some panties on and it just hits you: “God, I’m awesome”.

And you realize that even in your worst moments, in your bad hair days,  in your bad decisions nights or in your hangover mornings, it’s still you. It will always be you and you wouldn’t change that for anybody. You never heard “I love you”, it’s true, but you also know the reasons why. Timing was always your enemy.

Besides that what else? You look at yourself at you start analyzing your habits, your attitude, your way of living.

Is it the fact that the volume to your music is always on maximum?

Or the fact that you cannot leave your house in the morning if you didn’t dance a little bit in front of the mirror?

It is the fact that sometimes you let dishes pile up in your sink and it doesn’t even bother you? Or that you forget watering your plants? Or buying bread? Or getting up early when you have to?

Is it the fact that you party too much and work too little? That instead of making sketches for your school projects, you paint your living-room wall? That instead of doing research you read books by your favorite author?

Is it the fact that you are so friendly with everyone that sometimes they tend to take that for granted? The fact that you cannot say “no”, the fact that you are always there for them? That you would leave everything you were doing at 4 am just to go and give them a hug when they call you feeling lonely?

Is it the fact that holding hands is more important for you than kissing? That looking into one’s eyes is what sets your heart on fire? That him kissing your forehead makes you act like a little girl? That you like to cuddle all night, that you love morning sex?

Is it the fact that you enjoy crying for no reason when nobody’s around? That you listen to sad songs, look outside the window and try making a music video in your head? That you read old text messages and watch old videos in order to bring that moment back and the way he made you feel?

Is it the fact that you like reading books about one’s feelings and not necessarily with a rich story line? The fact that you love romantic movies? Because a part of you still wants to believe in that running towards each other in slow motion kind of scenario? Is it the fact that you love receiving flowers and having a date on Valentine’s day? That you are so old fashioned when it comes to love? That you try acting like a diva but once they get to know you, you’re nothing but a child who wants to be held?

Is  the fact that you want to be loved why you are not loved?

And if so, what would you change about that, about yourself?

But then there’s that moment that comes into every girls life when they just realize “Wait a minute, I would actually not change a thing about me.”

If  I were a boy, I would be exactly the girl he would love to love.

So then you decide to not get upset about it. Not anymore. The fact that you didn’t hear “I love you” until now it’s not because of your ways of loving or actually, wanting to love, it’s just because the guy who would’ve said “I love you” still didn’t hear your “hello”.

So just go. Grab your jacket and your lipstick and go spreading hellos.

And stop thinking about him. About the guy who didn’t love you. It’s disrespectful towards the guy that will.

Nopti uitabile

  Rosu inchis si mult fum. Sacadate scanteieri de alb. Cuvinte vagi deslusite printre vibratiile peretilor.
 "Mai ai bani? Il aduc imediat".
Dar parca au trecut cinci minute de cand a zis asta. De fapt, cat a trecut? Se simte ca o viata de om. Timpul trece atat de greu. Unde mi-e nenorocitul ala de shot? Verifici buzunarele. I-ai mai dat banii? Simti ceva metalic, nu stii daca sunt monezi sau cheile de la casa. Nici nu vrei sa te uiti, e bine cu ochii inchisi. Cand ii ai inchisi e rosu, altfel te doare, reflectorul e prea puternic. De fapt era, acum 5 minute. Sau acum o viata de om. Nici nu mai stii cum e de fapt. Deschizi ochii, e inca la coada. Un tip i-a acaparat atentia, tipic ei. Mie mi-e doar sa nu imi fure banii. Ea o sa fie ok, e fata mare, se descurca. Ii atinge mana, vad printre gene, oare ii zambeste si ea inapoi sau deja o enerveaza? M-as ridica sa o intreb, dar parca nici nu-mi simt picioarele. E asa bine cu ochii inchisi.
"E prietenul unui prieten, cica i se face reclama buna, am zis de ce nu. Vrei si tu?"
ce?
In dreapta mea, total strain, mana intinsa, ochii semi-deschisi.
O, doamne.
Ma ridic sa plec.
Acum le simt. Parca ele ma ridica pe mine, nu invers.
Cum de n-am observat ce buna e muzica?
Incep sa se miste mai repede, si mainile si soldurile, si coada, si ea.
"Poftim, noroc!"
Mi s-a intors muza, o pup pe frunte, te enerveaza tipul?
Nu inteleg ce raspunde, muzica e prea tare.
Dar nici nu mai intreb o data. Vreau doar sa dansez.
"Unde sunt ceilalti?"
A, restul! Nu stiu, hai sa vedem. O trag de mana, ea il trage pe el, inca avem paharele mici si goale, hai pana la bar sa le lasam. Nu tu din nou.
De unde te stiu?
Vibratiile sunt si mai puternice acum, sau o fi doar bataia inimii mele?
O aud ca tipa, ce a patit?? Ma sperii, ma intorc, e bine. Era doar melodia ei preferata. Uitasem ca e muzica misto.
"M-ai lasat balta mai devreme"

cine e acest om si ce vrea de la mine, "scapa-ma" ii spun. Ma ia de gat si ma saruta, baietii raman socati, ce, n-ati mai vazut doua fete pupandu-se?
"Mai ai bani?"
Cat timp o fi trecut?
"Stai. da-mi o lamaie."
Dar cand a mai rasarit si soarele?
"Noroc."

A letter to present me: the artist, the dreamer, the doubter

Sometimes I have to remind myself those things I keep forgetting. Because sometimes it gets so bad I have no idea what am I doing anymore. And I find myself giving up, taking shitty advises, losing my confidence. 
I have to remember though. I'm an artist. I'm still an artist and I will always be one. Working with 'love' is indeed what I love and if that's gonna take listening to some negative comments from time to time or some unslept nights or some fights with my dad, with my family, I'm willing to get over them and keep pursuing the good art that I know it's in me. 
I was a fool for letting them say I'm not an artist. I was a fool for listening to them, telling me to switch schools, switch careers, switch life. What is a life, to you? 
Is it about having a 9 to 5 job and a fat boring husband who has no idea what words like "beauty" or "art" or "soul" or "love" mean? He says he loves you though but how can you love someone if you don't fully understand the concept of loving and what it does to a person. If you cannot manage to understand how thankful you should be for having this feeling, for having this person, even for knowing this person. How can you truly love someone or something if you are not aware of the greatness that hides behind it? Of the beauty, of the art. How can you truly love if you don't appreciate art?
I don't wanna be an ignorant bitch with a heart of ice, no dreams, no hidden wishes, no nothing. Just the 9 to 5 and that fat boring husband. I don't wanna grow old thinking about how my life would have been if I would have grown up into an artist. 
Would it have been more fulfilling? More fascinating? Beautiful? Would I have been more...alive?
People say all artists have such bad luck when it comes to love. That they tend to exaggerate everything, put it in writing, make a painting out of it, write a song, they transform their loved ones into this no longer tangible person, their muse, source of inspiration, source of happiness and pain because oh, how they love the pain.
They say we get hurt so easily because  falling from the 9th floor is a lot worse than falling from the 1st one. We put ourselves and our muse on such a high pedestal that even the wind can blow us away. The higher the pedestal the easier to tear it down. 
I learned that by actually building things.
That's also what I do, or at least, what I have to do. Build things.
They say it's not for me, I'm not a builder, I'm a lady, I should be in an office with my nails painted red and of course I agreed because I like painting my nails red but then I also thought that this is how I learned about the pedestal thing. This is how I learned how easy it is to break a block of concrete even though it looks so strong, or how hard it is to connect two bars of metal that are both very thin... I think you learn a lot not only about cutting and welding but also about how life functions. 
I learned about electricity and lightning.
About concrete and cement.
About fabrics and sewing and printing and dying.
About carrying heavy stuff and working in teams.
About making a huge room full of trash, dirt and chaos look brand new again, about finding the elevator key and the storage key and the carrying trucks and the big garbage bins and the brooms and the vacuum cleaner and the works of art and the people around you. About making a brand new you.
About having a client, hear him out, make his wishes come true. 
About learning how to make his dream house also your dream house.
About having an open mind. About being able to learn.
About dealing with negative feedback even though it hurts so bad and sometimes it makes me cry. But I cry, and then I learn. That's just my process.
About talking about how you've grown in this half of year in front of everyone, about convincing you and them that you did grow, and how? 
About being able to evaluate yourself, criticise yourself but also admire yourself, because you are a fucking amazing artist, baby. 
No one, not even your dad is allowed to tell you otherwise.
It's been only 6 months since I moved here on my own, in this whole new country and whole new school, where I'm doing things I would have never thought I'd be doing and eating 4 sandwiches a day because I have no time to cook and smoke joints in my living room and falling in love and being kicked out of clubs and painting a naked lady on my wall because I just feel like it and staying until fucking 10 pm in school, working, and then until 4 am, working at home, and then crying cause I didn't finish and then feel like quiting and then starting all over again but oh, man, I learned so many things.
Coming here was the best decision I ever took. I feel like I finally found myself. Like finally everything seems right. Like everything I dreamed when I was a kid (remember those dreams?) is finally becoming reality. I'm finally living this dream and it's pretty amazing watching me grow into what I always wanted to be. 
Fuck you dad for making me doubt myself and my skills.
Fuck you grandma for telling me I should just come back and study some finance or something.
And you mom, where did you fucking go? Leaving me pursue your dream, our dream, without you by my side.
It sucks doing this alone and also fight against them, at only 19, but god, it feels so good when you finally get appreciated.
Thank you, KABK, dear home, dear family I never had, for showing me who I am.
Thank you, you, me, for figuring it out.
Thank you mom, for teaching me how to dream.
And thank you, Amsterdam for showing me what to dream again.

Cand te chinuie un simplu "Nu"

   A fost Amsterdamul si conexiunea aia instanta.

   Au fost coincidentele, mesajele de dupa, prima intalnire, un sarut in fata garii.

   Au fost asemanarile dintre familii, pana si faptul ca ne-am nascut in aceeasi zi .

   A fost contul tau de Netflix, muzica mea data la maxim, meciurile de fotbal, comenzile de pizza.

   Au fost sticlele de vin, saruturile de noapte buna, imbratisarile de dimineata.

   Zilele de sushi, noptile de alcool.

   Au fost prietenii tai, pop quiz nights, Pina Colada si Johnie Walker Black Label.

   Au fost ceaiuri magice si tripuri proaste, ai fost tu, eroul meu, dupa cea mai proasta noapte a mea, am fost eu, eroina ta, dupa cea mai proasta noapte a ta. Am fost unul pentru altul,in alegeri proaste, sau in rezultate si mai proaste.

   A fost momentul in care mi-ai zis ca pleci si cum totul s-a schimbat.

   Ai fost tu, 24/24, am fost noi, 7/7.

   A fost lantisorul in forma de inima si lacrimile, a fost taxiul care iti facea semn sa cobori si avionul care te-a dus la mii de kilometri distanta, au fost zilele de gol, proiectele nefacute, absentele, tacerea.

Eu, care ma simteam o straina in propria-mi casa. Ea, care era atat de goala. Europa, care brusc devenise atat de mica si Chicago, care-mi arata pentru prima oara cat e de departe, am fost eu, singura in orasul ce obisnuia sa fie al nostru, ai fost tu, care n-aveai sa te mai intorci.

Faptul ca nu ducea nicaieri.

Ca trebuia sa accept asta.

Ai fost tu, ai fost si ai disparut, am fost noi, cat de mult am putut, am fost eu, am fost si inca sunt, in locul asta bantuit de tine.

Intrebarea "o sa il mai vad oare vreodata?" si raspunsul care m-a chinuit atat timp. "Nu". E greu sa te faci ca nu-l auzi.

Au fost toate cele de mai sus si in sfarsit incep sa nu mai fie, una cate una. Sa le vad disparand, sa simt cum iti dau drumul. De la periuta ta de dinti la felul in care ma tineai de mana pe strada. Dispar una cate una si ma minunez cum inca nu au terminat de disparut, cum inca sunt trase ca dintr-un joben magic, fara sfarsit. Cum inca gasesc un pulover de al tau la mine in dulap sau o privire de a ta la geamul barului tau preferat. Cum inca astept, in tramvai, sa imi spui "am ajuns" si sa coboram impreuna, cum in timp ce ma uit la South Park imi vine sa te intreb razand "ai vazut??", cum atunci cand ascult melodia astept sa fredonezi refrenul impreuna cu mine, cum inca astept un mesaj de noapte buna.

Dar cum ziceam, toate dispar.

Una cate una.

Intrebarea daca o sa te mai vad vreodata, si ea dispare treptat, sansele sa te mai vad, poate dispar si ele. 

Oare o sa mai ramana totusi ceva, in eternitate? 

Sau imi va disparea si numele tau din memorie?

99% vor zice ca da.

Si totusi, parca era un raspuns, acela care mereu ma chinuia. E greu sa te faci ca nu-l auzi.

Unde vom dormi in șase luni?

Hai sa stabilim de acum unde vom dormi in 6 luni si ce priveliste vom avea de la balcon. 

Sa iti iei deja concediu, sa rezerv deja bilete.

Sa fim din nou turisti. Fara harti, fara program. 

Tu un romantic, eu o nebuna.

Sa fugim iar dupa trenuri, sa intram pe gratis la muzeu. Sa-ti spun despre Van Gogh, sa te miri ca n-am vazut StarWars. Si celelalte 99 filme preferate ale tale.

 Sa imi explici politica tarii tale, sa iti povestesc istoria alei mele. 

Sa imi spui de ai tai, chiar daca te doare. Sa iti spun de ai mei, chiar daca ma doare, la fel de tare.

Sa imi spui ca sunt frumoasa, sa-ti zambesc un "te ador".

Sa te vad cand deschid ochii, sa te mai privesc cum dormi.

Sa te vad de fapt, macar o data, chiar si peste 6 luni. 

Hai sa stabilim de acum, mai vorbim in 6 luni?

Sa iti iei deja concediu, sa rezerv deja bilete.

Are rost sa intreb? Ma mai placi in 6 luni?

Are rost sa sper, zi dupa zi, ca o sa te mai vad vreodata, am tupeu sa intreb de vacanta sau o par...putin... disperata? 

Nu te mai intreb.

Nu mai vreau.

Nu mai sper.

Decat putin, putin de tot, ca poate ma intrebi tu.

"Unde vom dormi in 6 luni?"

sau macar

"Te voi mai vedea vreodata?"

Criza de la 19 ani

De ce la 19 ani imi dictati sa fiu adult? Sa imi aleg cariera, sa merg la facultate, sa incep munca. Sa sfarsesc copilaria. De ce ma grabiti, de ce ganditi cu 10 pasi inainte, de ce nu luati o pauza? De ce nu luam cu totii o pauza? Sa plecam, sa fugim de orasul gri, sa alergam cat ne tin picioarele, sa strigam, sa ne cautam, sa ne gasim?
Cum se presupune ca ma pot gasi, blocata de 12 ani intr-un sistem educational stupid, care nu ajuta pe nimeni? Cum se presupune ca dupa 4 ani de liceu in care esti fortat sa iei note bune si la aia si la aia si la celelalte doua, si la inca 3, cum presupun ei ca la nici 3 luni dupa ce ai pus sfarsit acelui stres imens, esti gata sa incepi un nou stres, pentru cel putin 4 ani? Si cand scapi si de stresul asta, il incepi pe cel adevarat, acela de 8 ore pe zi la birou, in costum gri si pantofi incomozi.
Dar eu cand?
Mie ce?
Pe mine cum?
   Cum a ajuns societatea sa iti dicteze viata si viteza cu care trece pe langa tine? Si de fapt, cand a ajuns viteza aia atat de ingrozitor de mare?
   Cine sunteti voi, voi implinitilor, voi inteleptilor, sa imi spuneti mie ca din toamna incep sa fiu adult? Poate ca nu vreau. Poate mai am nevoie de o iarna, o primavara si o vara sa colind lumea, marile, oceanele, pana sa decid Eu ca sunt gata sa fiu adult. Imi reduce asta in vreun fel intelectul sau respectul cu care ma privesc alti oameni? Si daca da, de ce? Cand nu iti doresti altceva decat sa descoperi,sa cunosti, sa vezi locuri, culturi, oameni, cum ai putea fi judecat negativ in vreun fel?
   Si cu toate astea, tot o faceti.
   E amuzant cum fiecare coleg al meu de facultate e cu cel putin 2 ani mai in varsta decat mine. De ce asta? Ce au facut cu acei 2 ani? Vera a lucrat intr-un bar in Paris. Anna s-a plimbat prin Miami si New York. Naomi a lucrat cu copii in Thailanda, Luca a vizitat Australia.

  Iar eu...eu am dat Bacul. Si m-am plimbat putin prin Constanta, Predeal...

Si deodata ma trezesc in luna decembrie cu zeci de proiecte de terminat si din ce in ce mai putin timp, si ma panichez, ma blochez, ma sperii, cum s-a ajuns la asta? Eu unde m-am pierdut?
 Unde mi-am pus costumul de baie, harta Barcelonei, pasaportul, biletele? De ce nu sunt pe birou, grabindu-ma pentru ca in 3 ore imi pleaca avionul?
Unde mi-e tineretea?
Unde sunt eu?




La birou, imi fac tema pentru maine.