Rejection. Rejecting my past for it has been a glorious time. I used to be thorough and working hard. And shining. Sometimes I believe I’m living someone else’s life – it’s easier to explain the failure this way. I wonder where it all went. Down the drain, right?

I used to love my life, my work, my friends, my activities. Now it’s all almost mechanical. I take no pleasure in doing anything. Other times I think that this is my chance to really prove myself and become a winner. It’s not about the times you shine, but about the times you go back shining again after things have tried so hard to put you down. Yeah, probably this is another lesson I have to learn.

Nowadays I’m trying so hard to be authentic, and this is exactly what’s going wrong. Authenticity shouldn’t require an effort, but flow naturally. I’m walking down the path of self-recognition and self- possession. Damn this blurry road. Sometimes I wonder if I’m going nuts just because I forget things, way too many things. And also because I became too judgMENTAL. I’m hard on myself and on others. I remember I wasn’t so opinionated before.

And another thing. My friends tell me that I’m “over-analyzing” shit. True, completely true. It’s the thought that deprives the action. I became bitter also because I’m thinking too much about the consequences now. Earlier in my life, but not too long ago, these would be bonus points (i.e. the consequences), not frighting, close-to-stop-breathing moments. It must be a melange of: being afraid (society vs. I: 1-0), assessing the probable results, scarce resources, losing faith, lack of courage, and… idleness.

At this point in my life I believe that just through work, hard work, I could come into the light again. Consuming, workaholic, burning-out, your-fingers-hurt activity. Draining all the spleen out of me. I have to give my 110%.

To simply gather the power to walk that extra mile.

When do you know you made your dreams come true? When do you say to yourself: ok – now I can stop. And when do you know you’re too far from your dreams?

I reckon lately I felt one too many times far from achieving my dreams, and it hurt on the inside and made me be displeased with my own self, down to the back bone of my being. Tonight I decided, and this time for good, to change this. It only took a handshake. And it didn’t even happen with some important person (rather with a person that at some point held a position. A chair, to be more precise). But the thrills I got from knowing I did the right thing, I was in right place at the right moment… priceless! We’re all in for the tap on the back and the golden retirement watch, right? Why not confess to it.

What am I if not the dreams I set for myself? What am I if not the struggle itself to accomplish those dreams? Once again, I’ll dance to the music. Just go out there and dance. Something’s gotta give.
When will I know I hit the victory sign? I’ll probably be too busy celebrating that I won’t even notice I passed by it.

It’s a blurry path. Let there be light.

One of the greatest sins out there. It became my middle name. The laziness that covers my spirit became a terrible frustrating burden. It dragged me into mediocrity. After so many years in which I’ve tried to outdo myself – I let go. I let go of everything, in the plenitude of the word “everything”.

Being idle, not being present in your own life is similar to a disease. It aches and leaves you with the reality of the feeling that you can’t do anything about it. Sometimes pitying yourself, most of the times blaming yourself.

I haven’t written anything for exactly two years. (Ok, maybe there was an attempt the previous winter, but after only three stories the main character was killed due to… lack of interest to continue his fictional life. Ghita, may you rest in peace.) Two years in which – guess what? – everything changed. Again. So probably this will be a long, curative post in which I’ll try to catch up and cope with all the changes. The irony of it is that during these precise two years I wasn’t able to integrate the incremental changes. I wonder if I’ll be able to do it in just one post. But I still posses the naivety to believe that writing has a deeply cathartic effect upon me. So help me God.

During the past two years I’ve lost everything. Some came back, so it was only a partial loss. Some went 5 feet under. Some lost their gaze upon me. Life unwrapped from one loss to another. I lost my North Pole, my belief(s), myself. And, damn it!, I’m still too lazy to start the reconstruction. Sometimes I feel like I need help, I demand for external help, I require a boost. But deep down inside, I know that this is a path that has to be walked alone.

I find myself sitting on top of the couch,with a blanket over my head, and simply feeling scared. A paralyzing fear that whispers: “what’s the point in fighting me? here’s where it’s safe, where nothing can hurt you anymore. why go out there in the world again, among all those sharks?”. The same undignified whisper I keep hearing for a too long time. And then yet another battle arises inside. A paradox. I’m scared of the world out there (yes, I, the one that left everything behind and ran into the big wilderness, just because I used to love this world!), and on the other hand, I’m scared of missing on opportunities. But the first type of fear over-conquers the second. Like… 70% – 30%. I’m too lazy to even imagine how those opportunities might even look like.
So Freud, let’s talk about this fear. Cause and effect? One of my favourites. Let’s go to the malicious roots of it. I stated before I lost everything in this hurricane, probably I’m afraid of losing again the little I have now. (My God, it is so hard to keep on writing. It feels like I can’t do it anymore. Like I’m self-sabotaging. I can’t find the red line in it. But I have to over-come this. It is a promise to you, my dearest friend). I’m about to cry now and I can’t even say why. It is painful to keep on writing. Literally painful. So I was talking about losses. I lost my faith, and this is what’s killing me. Because to my mind, “faith” encompasses hope, direction, love, self-sacrifice, total dedication… altogether. I lost my drive, as a result of losing tangential goods. Or Gods. No, not really. They weren’t truly Gods, I made them look like deities.

My dearest friend, I’ve reached that point we were talking about more than five years ago. Our deepest, enormous fear. You mentioned back then the fear of solitude. Of complete solitude. I remember my pitiful grimace. It backfired at terrible intensities. I find myself in situations I used to condemn, to pity or to ban. It seems like I lost myself too much this time. I can’t find a point to guide all my efforts by. The compass is broken. And I’m too lazy to fix it. Too lazy to go down there, in the lower layers of the consciousness and apply a thorough analyze. Now you might be too quick and think that in fact I’m too afraid of what I might find. This is not true. I’m simply too lazy to get my hands dirty. And fix it.
Maybe the fact that I didn’t share my latest experiences (with the attached feelings) with almost none of my closest friends, is my way if crying out for help. But I can’t imagine how this will look like. And I don’t even need to. Not to mention that I’m profoundly living the misery of the misunderstood. Or “Miss Under she Stood”. There are days in a row when my body aches in terrible ways and I don’t even show it. Let alone when my soul aches. It is not a permanent state, but it is recurrent. (I’ve misspelled the word “let alone” and the proofreading corrected it into “Stallone”. Just to give you a hint of how messed up things actually are.) So I also feel alone in my own way, but I have to admit that this is a self-imposed loneliness/ singleness.

There is still one thing I’m not too lazy to do. That is blaming myself and punishing me on a constant basis. I don’t remember the last time I genuinely told myself: you were great today. Or: good job! Or: you were beautiful. I started behaving like an old lady living from her memories of the Golden Ages. All memories kept in labelled Haribo packs. I used to be full of light, exuding on the outside. It’s all gone. There is no anchor.

I tell bad words to myself, I’m harsh on me. Time is passing by and I do nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing meaningful, not because the actions themselves lack in value, but because I put no passion into them. I’m not present. So instead of living each day, I die a little day by day. I physically feel how I’m fading away. Not even burning out, but fading away. I need to find a way. Otherwise I am going to… disappear. I cannot remember who I was and I can’t start over. I lack the motives, but not necessarily the means.

Don’t think I don’t notice how meaningless this post is and that there is no actual value into it. Artistic, nor personal.

There is an option on this dashboard: “move to trash”. This is tempting indeed, but I need you to give me the courage to continue. I need to escape in writing. I need to find a way, a way towards the light, a way to believe that it’s gonna get better. I need you to hold my hand and trust in me. I need (notice the two “e”s that are chained so tight to each other) you to understand me and just ignite the passion. I reckon I can’t be more outspoken than this. My dearest friend… I have in front of me an empty musical score. Please, present me the rhythm. The harmony should follow your efforts.

The heaviest word is laziness. To hold my head up. To fight. I am too tired. Too too tired…

Such a shame when studs become zebras by night.

‘Cause lately I doubt I know what happiness is for me. And every time I doubt, all its friends come right around the corner: fear, misfortune, 3 years of bad luck and eventually failure.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve actually written something meaningful. And no one to share it with. It feels like the surgeon lost his 10 blade. And the dogs just keep on howling at the doors of doom. At the doors of the non-believers.

And then, silently crawling under the door, here she comes. The big question: what have I become? Sometimes I don’t know this person that’s living inside of me. But that should be alright, from time to time. Each effect is preceded by a cause.

And the cause lies deep down inside. Change took place for a greater reason, right? To become more loveable, more suitable, easier to be accepted. And then I got lost in translation. Somehow, it’s not even about failure this time, is about not knowing the purpose of this change that happened in me.

What have I become? And for what? I want to feel that life is running through these veins, and crawls all the way up to my heart, making it pump beyond control, over-paced. I want my hand to be held when I lost faith, when I am scared. And when I am weak. I don’t want to lower my emotional standards. I don’t want to ask for less, in order to be amazed with what I’m getting. It doesn’t work this way. It shouldn’t!

So doubt calls in for another friend: resent. I resent the situation I am in right now, but I manifest the stubbornness of a drunk donkey to believe that if I put in a little bit more effort, a little bit more patience, a little more faith… it will all come together. Sooner or later. I keep on walking like in a commercial. All along thinking that this is typical for my youth. ‘You have to give it one more try! You have to give it a real try this time. You have to stick to the *plan*. No pain, no gain.’ – this almost follows me like the post-its on the mirror each morning. But instead of ‘Smile, wear clean underwear. Floss twice’, I find a different kind of post-it on my mirror. It simply says: Close your eyes.

I tried to become a better person, a better woman. For the bad people out there, waiting to eat you alive. And I succeeded in so many ways, that it overwhelms me. One year ago, I never thought I could abandon so much. I don’t feel like a victim, nor like a winner. So I’ve must have gone wrong somewhere in between.

All this time you held the gun. And I pulled the trigger… David.

And I find myself in front of an empty screen facing a white keyboard. I read just the other days a writer’s confessions about the intimacy she shares with an empty sheet of paper and her pen curving thoughts, curving words upon the sheet. And where do I stand? Just in the middle of the fear to start writing again and the agonising eager pain to write again.

I read and I travelled lately, only to achieve a certain degree of peace with what I so affectionately call “my demons”. Well, the summer seems such a waste of feelings and of questioning. Neither affection, nor answers come back to the sender.

I guess I’m truly about to abandon my better half. It might not instantly be that kind of verbal, ear-hurting and heartbreaking separation, but for sure something is breaking inside of me day by day. And I reached such an EQ that now I don’t even panic or get depressed or… try to save anything. I’m in the “acceptance” stage. It might just have never worked out, right?

This night in Brussels is embrassing me with its couldy stars, its immigrants and its passion to send me back home. Just to have another situation to escape from. To run from.

My muscles, be it intellectual or sentimental ones, are physically tired of running from and running towards. There is surely no one to catch me once I reach the deadline. Just my shadow probably.

The thing that amazes me the most is that this time it gets broken from the inside and not from the outside. The emptiness of truly being alone, under the title of being in a couple. We might just have different definitions of the word “couple”. What’s sure is that the definition that doesn’t meet my expectation started bothering me like those sour pickles stinging your tongue when they turn out to be much more intense and sour than you would’ve expected.

I check and refresh and press F5 and nothing comes up. No news, no kind words, no unwrapped gifts, no serenades in my Inbox. This might as well be one of those nights when we all play the silent music. Some of us being just busy, and some of us being just homeless.

I solely don’t want to go against nature and its on attraction force. I cannot ask for more than the present law of attraction. I might trigger an ideological war in between researchers and lawyers, and we don’t want that, do we? So I guess I’ll just stop asking. ‘Cause for sure we ain’t getting more than we already did.

And each of us will leave this vivid circus with a mere satisfaction, be it whatever. And then… where’s the courage to end it all?

I thought I knew, but I really have no idea.

There are nights in which I ponder the answers and still grasp none. Long sleepless and restless nights followed by mornings in which I regret losing precious sleeping hours and still reaching… nothing. And then I touch my skin, ask myself where do I stand, hold onto a feeling and open a book. Hoping for the answers to come.

Somehow, answers find a very stubborn way of wrapping themselves, leaving me alone in the cold long night. I sometimes think I’m obsessing over getting concrete answers when in fact life is made of zillions greys. It’s the least thing I should get: to know where I stand. Where I start and where I end. These limits are expressed in abilities I posses or not. I can’t undo the done.

There are mornings and evenings when I find myself walking astray from the path. Yet again, I always seem to find my way home.

Somehow the summer tends to bring out the worst in me: expectations. Expectations of continuous good weather, of nights never to remember with the friends I’ll never forget, of love shivers in open air… expectations of new tracks to rock the bass and of new cocktails served under the bar. I guess that in the end the best surprises come when you would least expect them.

So let’s say that this summer I’ll just put my flip-flops on, the mp3 player deeply plugged in the ears of my vibrating heart and… hit the road. Whatever dragons lay ahead may they just be chewable lollipops and fluffy clouds and no “erase/ rewind” scheme would break my chain of four-gloved events!

It started well… With a “goodbye dear one” in an European City, a 5-hour flight delay and a concert in an ex-communistic capital. The Killers played in Bucharest and they blew my mind, a little bit shrunken still, from the pouring rain outside. For sure, one of those concerts I’ll never dare to forget.

Today I say to myself: I got soul, but I’m not a soldier… And so, the story begins.