Leaving my borrowed life behind

It’s time to move on, I thought. My mind giving me cross references that made my heart ache with mixed sensations. I had left that morning to a new life, excited, scared and obligated by the circumstances. I was a half immigrant, with one foot in, but still chained by the incredible toughness of a system.

Nostalgia and fear, they all were there and sat next to my mind as co-pilots on the ride to a new life, one that was given as a pity loan, in which I was the object of a deal that I had very little to say for.

I didn’t have time to apply a judging thought to the series of events; I was merely existing, in silence, with very little hope.

I borrowed a wore-out smile, a tiny sample of dignity, and carried with me a bag full of old and tight clothes, filling the space with the unavoidable sense of fear; fear of the unknown and the uncertain.

My new life was set up in the shape of a fruit basket, lying in the breakfast bar of an empty kitchen, and that meant the world to me. It was a clear sign of hope, as I have taken to give fruit baskets to people in some sort of disgrace.

My steps were cautious; I had learned too well to never give a step without proper inspection. Just like a street cat in a new home, skepticism was my biggest shield, I wanted it to be truth, I wanted it to be right.

And the new life began, split like the heart of a war criminal, I had a life left behind far away, and a new reality, consistent of an environment that I couldn’t grasp, an office filled with strangers that passed by a back door at a rapid rate, slamming the big, noisy metal doors as they went through and the feeling of being the only dark grain in a full bag of white rice.

Step by step, what should have been a process of adaptation became a new way of survival, a new set of rules, in which I had to respond to a series of expectations that were part of that broken deal; filled with secrets in which I had very little input. I realized that my life was still wrecked in two parts and there was an obvious winner.

Then freedom came, in the shape of an e-mail, then a passport, after that a piece of paper that three weeks later would translate in a small two by three-point-five inches card, step by step, like a survivor in a disaster area making his way through the rubble. I could barely content myself, just to realize that I still had the moral commitment to my “redeemers”, or so I thought.

The light was shinning right into my eyes and after such a long time of darkness, I was blinded for a while; feeling lost, without direction, the warm stream of emotions raced throughout my system, giving me back the freedom which I still evaded feeling for the fear that it was a dream, a fantasy. I was ready to fly, to explore, but then fear came, cornered and trapped me.

I was the one to blame I thought; the guilt translated in insecurities, which echoed in my non-fructuous efforts to escape the state of mind, the overwhelming thought of coming back to earth as a full person, as a rightful human being.

And life happened… I was forced to take back the curse of life, the one I had been assigned as what I wanted to think was my destiny. With so little hope, so few expectations; but hungry of living, of seeing, of harvesting all the promises left by the sacrifices.

Half broken is how I felt. The memories of my life were misting with the bitter pictures of those who held me back; the ones that once made promises and held me captive of their selfish existence. Unable to scream, to run, I was a slave of the circumstances.

A mental picture of the loss of dignity; Printed in the back of my head, while I saw too many planes flight away with my own dreams on board, and half my heart left to be stepped down by that new acquired sense of quilt. I chose to suffer, because I was still blinded by the stream of light, the price of freedom, the recuperation of myself.

What is fair? I thought bitterly, why am I still here? I told to myself in a desperate plea for redemption. Then I saw it, clearly and shiny, life is not fair; I had to gain it back, and return this borrowed one to the circumstances.

The choice then was mine, for the longest time I felt able to show some of my feelings. I slapped in the face those who for so long showed me coward sympathy, I terminated the unfair contract that was signed with two hands tied up in a string of emotional distress, and decided to fear the unknown, the uncertain landscape of possibilities, still half-broken, still afraid.

And this is how I leave my borrowed life. I take with me my old tight clothes, but I leave behind the fear of a half immigrant, the lack of dignity; I take with me the uncertainty of the future, but I leave behind the slavering strings of circumstances; I move on, leaving my borrowed life behind, to look back at a dream, that was a nightmare, to learn more lessons.

Old grown-up enemy

You are back, inside and settled. And just like in the last time, I sense your unequivocal presence, making home in the core of my guts, misting my ideas with your usual salutations.

Uninvited just like always, you take command, and choose to make the important decisions of the unexpected moments. I have no choice but to fear you, and to have a chat of pledge with my visions.

You have found the keys again, and settled; I tried to hide, to forget, to ignore, but I am human too, and I am vulnerable to you, just like anybody else who has tasted life and seen it all. I have learned to nourish you right inside my soul.

In a sharp feeling sense, you kick in, I feel sick, dizzy and temperamental. I have no patience not even for my casual thoughts, those that I get to use once in a while to feel special, and here you are.

Time rolls back, as I know a new change is in order, and you wait here, patiently, ready to charge, just like before.

You are “Anxiety” and I detest you.

Because I had to

You walked on, far and away, reached the limits of time inside my head
In an instant you are back, breaking the fragile shield

You chose to leave, ripped my soul apart, and here you still live
Hidden in the corners of my mind.

I saw your eyes, and unleashed the force, my dearest failure
With your uncovered truth, I see my loss

The distance is strong, and admirably unbeatable
I apologize to my broken memories, my wounded heart and my silenced words

But inside myself you live! Like a convict hiding from Justice
I let you in, with the condition that you would never be alive again

But I can see the pain, reflected in the purest form of fear
That one that you don’t believe it could exist

Until you feel it.

You walked on and far away. And in the path you left, are found
The ashes of that life... that time took charge to blow away.

Looking up.

Three hours, one hundred and eighty minutes, ten thousand and eight hundred seconds, and then I am there. I find loneliness, or familiarity, I sense coldness, or anticipation, I see hope, or regrets.

During the course of the journey, I often times dream, I listen to myself, and usually try to imagine with vivid images from my mind what would it be if… I had chosen different things.

There is nothing else I can do; I need to waste the time, with no more expectations than just keeping awake, alert and conscious.

I see the fields run vigorously in my eyes, giving me the perspective of being stationary in the quick vortex of my head, just when I feel I am getting lost and scared, the well defined chaos in which my ideas transform thanks to the mix of boredom, and tiredness take over, and just like that I hear myself.

I usually have music on, I pretend there’s nothing else to look forward than just the stories that are told by the sounds I hear. When the contemporary violins of “Bond” come in, I imagine it is me who plays energetically to the rhythm of the Romanian Rhapsody, and I have an audience who appreciates and admires with envy my unequivocal talent. Suddenly I have to join, and start singing the chorus of songs that I can’t even sing. If the music got muted, I would sound like a howling dog.

Then I start thinking too much… the one quality I can get to hate. I begin looking for answers to questions I shouldn’t be asking in the first place. I can sense that there’s nothing else in my spirit than the pure sensation of someone who looks at a plane go away with his desires inside, and he has been left behind.

I am here… present, going back and forward between my freedom and my jail. I can see and hate myself for hating. I punish my feelings, until I find self resignation.

I am here… left behind as I see the world turn and disappear right through the vision of my window.

Érase Una Vez…

We have heard the stories; those that once put us to sleep. No matter where the wind took our laughs, we all anticipated the moments in which our thoughts would be taken to fantastic lands, and in which our memories shaped the most innocent features that determined our cultural personalities.

For some, they started as a “Once Upon A Time…”, others heard an Irish toned “Fadó, fadó…”, or a harsh yet hopeful German sound of “Es war einmal…”, some others had a more romantic Italian “C’era una volta…” or a more pragmatic Greek "Mia forá ki énan kairó..."; but for me, it was a simple and warm “Érase Una Vez…”

These were the magic words to the hidden corners of my mind, in which I carefully placed my heroes, fantasies, fears and unattainable dreams.

We shared the fantastic memories of dragons, princesses, talking creatures, scary tiny heroes, and fearful villains, but in our own way, we made them ours, hoping they would come to the rescue when the right moment in our lives called for it.

Just as leaves do in late autumn, we flew away with the strong blow that just our imagination was able keep. Making up the faces, forests, castles and swords inside our heads, bringing them to life, letting them be.

Érase Una Vez the time in which we believed we could, in which there was more to a story than just the side we were told to listen; in which we cared for a cat wearing high boots, or in which we wanted to be a tiny mouse to be able to find the village where the gnomes lived.

Suddenly, I touched the old book, covered in dark hard leather with golden letters that smelled like time; slowly I felt its protuberant surface, thinking on the young minds that once, heard attentively the words that laid inside, latent, sleeping, but ready to come to life.

And lifting its heavy, front cover I saw, the first words that once upon a time, thrived my system and awoken my imagination “Érase Una Vez”; and the old smell of its pages combined with the washed illustrations on its counter-page set a smile on my face, that smile that I know was the exact same I had years before, printed in my childhood dreams.

SDIH
June 9 2008

Inspiration

I was unaware, and I opened my eyes, the door, and my mind
Suddenly the glass door, that one that closes by the force of an overstretched spring
slowly condensed with the cool wet breeze of an early morning.

I witness how the translucent becomes opaque; slowly, sublime,
I didn’t move, holding a bag in my hands, I felt light, ready.
The air was cold, with anticipation and hope.

I touched the fragile cover of watery consistency,
And my finger was the brush; the door the canvas.
And in sense and spirit, I marked a path.

Slowly, unstoppable, it created, shaped and ran.
The shapes, the art, was all there, being born,
And I witnessed what I knew wouldn’t last

My eyes filled with possibilities, my hands were wet
The lines changed, the circles joined, and it was mine
My work of art, of inspiration… my piece of mind

Just like I imagined as a child, tears were from heaven
The condensation gave up, and erased the tales
Those that I made up in my head and that my finger brought to life

I step back, half of what it was, was already gone
I looked, and smiled, thankful and aware
Of the gift that I allowed myself to get.

The gift of sudden,
The beauty of fragile
The privilege of a stolen smile.

The tears of condensation.
The ones that were from heaven,
Now running in my eyes.

SDIH (05/29/2008)

When was the last time?

When was the last time?

That you threw yourself on the grass, and saw time pass by.
That you Took a moment to smell the scent from a tree
That you Stopped to listen to the murmurs of an early morning,
And Gave a deep breath, and filled your lungs with air

How much does it cost?

To buy the last rays of the sun setting on the horizon
The shades of blue, orange and purple in the sky
To touch the soft petals of a flower
The smell of warm soup in a cool evening

Why did we stop?

Spinning around in circles, looking up high in the sky
Running down a hill with the anticipation of simply falling.
Having dreams of incredulous yet fantastic possibilities,
Believing we could, even against all odds.

The last time we took the moment to understand
That we are no longer children, that we have changed

That our natural instincts, lay inside, mostly dead
That’s how our innocence deserves a requiem.

The last time we checked, we had grown up.
Why is life so real, so solid, so wrong.

Waste is now a verb that we avoid,
As we try to earn a solid, cold, shared goal.

When was the last time?

You told yourself a story to go to bed,
You heard the sound of the soul in your head.

How much does it cost?

To gain all those dreams again
To talk to God and feel my prays

Why did we stop?

To just let go with joy,
To be ourselves.

SDIH (5/27/2008)