Category Archives: texte compuse

words from the inner mother – writing meditation

I want to tell you something about life
About the dreams you hold inside
About the ups and downs, about the age and theft of
Of dreams went broke and left behind.
I want to tell you all…and something nice.
To sing a song along with it
That you can buy on isle 5.
I want to tell you all there is
Of love and hope, of hope and dreams
Of reaching out and going deep
Of holding your hand out into the cold hoping it would catch a drop.
I want to tell you something nice
of birds and songs that come alive
Only when you smile
Of songs that turn you into birds
With wings and `wanna play’s` into their eyes
With feathers of gold.
I want to tell you something more
Don’t give up on your dreams and go
Cause you don’t need to say it more
But the look in your eyes when you think of it – no matter that “it“ is – is incredible and luminous
I want for you to know it all
to tell you all and hold you long
To keep you all
Safe and confident, to do it all
To not take blame or shame along.
I want to keep you safe and warm
So you can dream
and hatch your hopes
to grow your wings
as strong as a bow
(that’s funny, cause bowing doesn’t come with wings)
and clear as fog.
I want to hold you space so close
but yet so loose and form your sacred place to grow
I want to tell you something more
Your dreams, your hopes, your love for songs
Is there, still warm, just waiting for a note to go
Across the sun, the yard, the sea
Across the Opera of Me.
I want to tell you this and more
I love your song and love you more
So go my child. Be brave and play
Play with your voice
And go away.
Don’t worry cause you’ll let me go
I’ll be here still, holding it all,
I’ll love you more than you can know
And happily keep shining on
For you, for me, for all of us
For all that needs to come on out


What i really need you to know is this
There is no right or wrong
No yes or no
There’s only this… this moment here
This second when you’re breathing in.
And even this, right now, is gone
So what i really need to know…
Just go, don’t need to know it all
Just fall and go
Go up the hill and down the road
Rise up from bed and try again
And go where you never thought you might go


Let this be the year – Wild writing exercise

Let this be the year of love
Let this be the year of love. For each other, for another, for a cat or stray dog in the streets.
Let this be the year! The year of love. For music and travel, for coats and bridges.
Let this be the year of fashion! Of shoes and fur and fashion shows. Inside my mind, my nest, my body, my heart.
Let this be the year of love
Of bed sheets undone, of cold feet at the end of it warming each other
Let this be the year of sun. Of sea wind and flowy white clothes
Let this be the year of love
Let this be. Let ME be. I let myself be. i am ME.
Let this be the year of love
Let this be the year of freedom, of signing off and jumping off from a bridge. No, from the tallest building there is!
Let this be the year of opened wings, of diving into thin air and to find myself safely into bed
Let this be the year. It already is.
It started 2 days ago, what, didn’t you hear?
Let this be the year of love, of fun and games
Of trainings and plays
Fun and freedom
Let this be the year when I feel alive all the time, and raw and safely exposed as in a safe and sacred space held in workshops
Let this be the year of love. For myself. For yourself.
Let this be the year of touch. I touch myself and you and all.
I feel touched by all
Let this be the year of warmth. And cold.
And wet and snow. Of all fully expressed.
Let this be the year of wrongs, of mistakes made in the process of growth.
Of mama bear and papa bearthere to protect
Let this be the year of bests. When mistakes turn into nest
Let this be the year of rest.
Let this be the year of dove
Of jumping through hoops and playing with the wind. Of diving deep and happily reaching for air
Let this be the year of waves, so deep, that wash all away.
Let this be the year of bests!
2016 mantra 🙂

The story of us (a dream undreamed yet)

It was March when you came. Unannounced, unprepared. Even for yourself.
It was just you and your dog. Nothing else. I found you sitting on the stairs, on my floor, in front of my door.

As I was walking up the stairs, I stopped, looked at you, even stared. You were there. I have dreamt of this so many times, in so many ways, and now, that you’re there, I couldn’t believ it. I passed you and got to the door, holding my breath, as if, if I exhaled, you would disappear…like a ghost. Puppy followed me, wiggling its tail, and as I opened the door, I looked back, my eyes asking you if you wanna come in.

I was silent on the outside, even cold, I couldn’t breathe, talk, think, but the inner voices we’re messing with my mind, my heart, my soul and butterflies. Inside of me a storm began: the thought you cannot be here, it’s not real, that I’m dreaming, the insane happiness of seeing you waiting for me as I waited for you all year, the dreams and hopes I created of you moving here, to try once more to be…more, the memories of that night, the kisses we shared, the glances we got lost into, the lust and despair of one night together and then the going away.

I put water to boil, looking at it so intensely as if I could boil it with my sight, listening to your steps, and the dog’s in the hallway and the house. You were there. Inside. My house. As you stopped in the kitchen’s doorway, I looked up. Your face, your smile, your blue eyes and red hair. Your eyes said so much, into them I could read the story of your year, the trip that got you here, the decisions you had do make, the family you left behind, the girlfriend you had for a few months, the memory of that night, our walk in the snow, the games, the team, your job and your mom. As I exhaled, I closed my eyes. What if I open them and you are not there anymore? I heard your steps toward me and as I opened my eyes, tears appeared.
– I cannot believe, where the first word to come out
– Come here, you said
– Why did you come? What are you trying to say?

Your hands around my waist as the water loudly boiled on the stove. I put my hands on your chest and suddenly I remembered it all, the night, the kisses, the memory of our bodies mixing into one, the feeling when you lift me, it was all back as if it was yesterday. You brought me closer and started to share your thoughts. You, who rarely talked, you, from whom I had to pull our words with a pair of tongs, you, who are so good at keeping things to yourself. You, who missed me, who remembered everything, just like me, you, who were grateful for opening up to me; you, who had a different life there, you, who fell in love for a month, you, who didn’t want to move back, but had to, you, who when you realized you had to move back for your mom, the first thought was of us.


“Mă bucur că te-am cunoscut” îi spuse.
„Mă bucur că te-am cunoscut, nici nu îţi poţi închipui cât de mult mă bucur.”
Rostea cuvintele privind aburul ce urca lasciv din cana de cafea. Atât de concentrat încât nu observase că ea ieşea deja din cafenea.

„Mă bucur că eşti a mea”, continuă conversaţia. Vorbea deja cu ea, cu cealaltă ea, aceea care îl părăsise la altar. „Vom avea o viaţă frumoasă noi doi, casa noastră, o terasă…Mă mai iubeşti?..”
Întrebarea rămase în aer, precum aburul din faţa sa.

Ridică ochii spre scaunul gol,cana de cafea to go începută şi marcată de urmele buzelor roşii-roz. Privi urmele buzelor pe marginea de carton. Nu mai ştia cum arăta. Ochii căprui-verzi, părul blond cu nuanţe de roşcat, rochia lungă, ziua nunţii şi apoi noaptea asta petrecută împreună. Cine sunt ele, care e una, care e alta? De ce le-a întâlnit pe amândouă, pe fiecare.

Pick up the pieces – part 1

“Pick up the pieces” she told him
“pick up the pieces” she reminded him briefly

Pick up the pieces…she couldn’t remember if this is what she actually told him, but the image was so vivid. The hanging arms, the falling shoulders, his face after hearing the words “i’m leaving”, no breathing… she could swear he stopped breathing aprox. 5 minutes.

The only thing that stops her from walking away right this instant is the fact that they are in an elevator.

numele meu e Mira

Numele meu e Mira. Mira şi atât. Nu de la Mirabela, aşa cum ar părea. Mira de la a se mira, dacă vrei neapărat o explicaţie. Da, chiar aşa.

Eu sunt Mira şi mă mir. În fiecare zi, în fiecare secundă. Parcă mă şi văd în faţa unui grup de anonimi care încearcă să se vindece de ceva..”bună Miraaa”. De fapt, cred că zilnic trec prin grupuri care ar vrea să mă vindec de asta. „A se mira, cum vine asta?…asta nu e o activitate bănoasă, nu puteai să alegi şi tu ceva din care să faci bani? Ai vrut tu să faci pe interesanta” parcă o şi aud pe mama. „Ce te miri, mă aşa, n-ai mai văzut până acum bărbaţi adevăraţi? N-ai mai văzut, uite-te la tine!” – cred că asta mi s-a şi întâmplat de curând prin cartier.

Locuiesc într-un cartier în care oamenii nu se miră. Nu se miră, nu se uită în jur, nu zâmbesc şi nu întreabă niciodată mai mult decât „cât e ceasul, duduie?”. Privesc în asfalt, merg apăsat şi încruntat, sunt gri şi îngrijoraţi. Cel mai adesea îi întâlneşti în staţia de autobuz sau la cozi la supermarket, unde stau în formaţiune de ciorchine nearanjat, le place să vorbească tare, să fie primii la casa de marcat şi ultimii care tac.

Iar eu mă mir. Mă mir de încruntarea lor, de lipsa lor de perspectivă, de ridurile care le apar în centrul frunţii, de privirile şi gândurile care trădează invidia, ura şi răutatea. Mă uit la ei şi mă mir cum nu văd soarele dimineţa, cum nu se bucură de fluturele care le taie calea, de flori şi copii care le ies în cale, de mersul pe jos, de biciclete şi plimbare, de tot ce e frumos şi cald.

Da, numele meu e Mira.

Un melc – poezie naivă

ok, am scris poezia asta la un antrenament de imaginatie pentru Revista de Povestiri, dar cum ei nu au publicat-o, cred ca pot sa o pun eu aici. (later edit. m-au si publicat, pe site 🙂 wohoooo )

Un melc lăsa in spate, o urmă de vise uitate.
Iar in punga ce in mană-o ţinea, o pisică mică, speriată stătea.
Aproape uitase de ea.

Privea in faţă, în gol, mergând prin întuneric domol
Şi-şi cânta.
Un descântec intona, ca un pick-up stricat
Pe acelaşi şanţ rămas blocat.
Mergea lin şi agale, apatic,
Nu-l animau nici frunzele, nici vântul simpatic.

Mergea de mult şi aproape că uitase
De ce şi de unde plecase
Privea în pământ, la picioare,
la asfaltul mereu la aceiaşi culoare.

O furnică-i trecu înainte,
urmată de familionul cuminte.

Curioasă privi spre uriaşul molatec,
cum plimbă o pungă şi vise în spate.
Dădu o tură – inapoi şi-mprejur- şi-ncercă să meargă în pasul lui

Adidaşii şi-i opri. Şi suflând adânc îi şopti:

„Uriaşule, dragă, unde te duci de nu contează când ajungi?
Şi de ce mergi pe seară şi nu aştepţi soarele să apară?”

Molateca fiinţă râse-n surdină
„Eu nu aştept soarele să vină, el singur mă prinde din urmă
Şi vântul asemeni, şi chiar şi ninsoarea,
Un singur lucru caut – ploaia.
Iar ea fuge de mine, cu tunete, fulgere, lacrimi, suspine.
Aşa că mă plimb pe drumuri agale
Sperând ca din timp în timp, ploaia să-mi iasă în cale”.

Lentoare de weekend sfârşit de iulie, în oraş.

E gol ca o femeie părăsită. Centrul pare stăpânit de homeleşi şi femei dezbrăcate. ca într-un film apocaliptic, uneori tot oraşul tace. zgomotul dispare absorbit de căldura care topeşte privirea. oraşul respiră ciment şi asfalt.

Lentoare. lâncezeală. miros de acreală şi monoxid de carbon.

“hai, la referendum / hai, la revedere”.

Parcă au fugit cu toţii cât mai departe.

Poliţia e cu noi. parcă azi mai mult ca în alte ocazii. o fi de la referendum sau i-a scos căldura din secţii?

Culmea, contrar indicaţiilor medicilor, doar bătrânii se plimbă prin autobuze şi metrou. Oraş îmbătrânit prematur, geriatric, care scârţâie din încheieturi. La fel ca troleibuzul care îşi dă duhul trecând pe lângă mine.

Cum am castigat concursul Apparat

Creative writing pays off. Not much, not often, but when you write it truthful to yourself, it cannot fail. Even if it is money, a contest or just a warm smile – it’s worthy.

So, cam asa se traduce dorinta  mea extrema de a-l auzi pe Sasha (aka Apparat) in concert sambata si asta e starea pe care muzica lui mi-o da – reverie:

Merg pe strada, grabita, prin multimea morocanoasa de la ora 8 dimineata. toata lumea impinge, se grabeste, totul e un iures. Nu-mi place atmosfera de dimineata. Toti privesc spre pantofi si dau cu servietele in stanga si dreapta ca sa-si croiasca drum, de parca norii le-au coborat de pe cer pe urechi. Imi pun castile in urechi, iar iPod-ul incepe sa cante. “Damn, iar l-am uitat deschis in geanta. Mai am baterie?”. Un sunet strapunge agitatia strazii, zgomotul pasilor se afunda in acordurile fine. “Daytime froze” si timpul se dilata. Ca un fulger, sunetul imi intra in minte. o furnicatura pe sirea spinarii si senzatia de libertate. “Cerul e albastru”, abia acum il observ. Raman la stop dupa ce multimea pleaca. Privesc amuzata schimbul de armate de pe un trotuar pe altul peste zebra stearsa. Cotesc pe acordurile hipnotice ale “like porcelaine”. Azi am nevoie de spatiu, de soare, de Bucurestiul nepopulat sau uitat.

Accelerez pe masura ce ” Arcadia ” aţâţă decibelii in urechea mea, ma intrec cu bicicletele si masinile de pe strada.  traversez semet Calea Victoriei, de-a latul, zig-zagand printre masinile oprite si frustrate de culoarea rosie a semaforului. Sunt libera. De caroserii si roti, de asfalt si cenusiu. Cerul meu e albastru, trotuarul imi e prieten, mangai florile ce-mi ies in cale. 

“Shapes to melt into it’s own/Fact isn’t what you see/not anymore what it used to be/ Hold down your lies/Don’t tell me why/Kiss me goodbye”.