I'm still fascinated by Octavian Paler. I feel so close to this beautiful man and maybe that’s why I always go back to his books, as a Muslim goes back to Mecca. Because at the end of his existence, he no longer believed in democracy, capitalism or freedom.
He only believed in misanthropy and love.
I woke up with the feeling that something radical has changed inside of me, somewhere between the last text he sent and the moment I opened my eyes. It could have been anything, from a simple headache to a panic abruptly introduced and without reason...was a consequence of something unclear. I was as rumpled as I am every morning of my life and just as lazy.
My blood seemed to move differently; linger a bit longer in the heart... betraying my needs.
I looked in the mirror. It was me...no doubt.
Even the light was exactly the same like yesterday morning.
But I wasn't.
I got in the cab and came in.
In one way or another, I am in my worst shape.
I cried when I saw Romeo and Juliet, I desperately loved John Wilmot(Second Earl of Rochester) and I hated Miss Christina, I died with Mozart in the Miloš Forman's film, but none of these left any scars on my face.
Now I feel somehow mutilated... in an invisible place, I can't point out... but it's there... as an announcement of something that did not happen yet, but becomes urgent, imminent as an uninvited guest who knocks on your door.
I still like wars.
Maybe because I don't need the victory, but I love the fight.
It's a way of being, a character trait...like A. Paunescu said: "...the road is interesting, contains the target." In addition, the adrenaline, the vanity, the pride (at least as far as I'm concerned) are not in the bloody head that you have at the end, but in the strategies that you make on the battlefield.
Cx.
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