Show me the marks left by the world,
Open my ears with clever words,
Open the gate of my knowledge,
Because only together, we chisel reality.
You are the hand, I am the tool
And together we are
October 4, 1958
in Istrati's Braila - the transition to life
through Malis lui Labis - the playfulness of the holidays
in the Bucharest of big dreams - training
and in Constanta - adastarea
I'm writing! But who am I? A soul, a name, a life ...
I know that today it is time that decides: what you do, how you look, what you say and how you say it. If you still find time and consider it appropriate to read me, I can only consider myself happy. The same time makes me look for you. … It is good "a form of time lived to give". I also know that at the top of the mountain, the vigorous firs show to the young people that the wind is not friendly only to those who have the courage to face it. "Try my roots and the strength of my torso" is the whisper and the thrill of trembling, because I have sheltered many souls over time. I tried to untangle the blades of grass, but their rustle urges me to dream, to forget. “Enjoy the beauty of the dewdrops but do not look for the root; rot nourishes and gives life, but it cannot be beautiful ”. I dared to offer some fragments of the "must of the dying leaves", waiting for the sword to cut or bless.
If I were to write down on paper all the places where I stopped and sat down, I think I would either have so much to say that it would bring praise or I would tremble under the wind of doubts, forgetting even my name.
The word, as I said before, is my great love of writing with other great loves that kept me alive. Writing is a blessed habit from which I did not shy away because I wanted to know all his feelings. There were moments when doubt knocked me down but like the blade of grass I found the strength to come out again into the light. Like Hansel, I left behind crumbs of bread and if I can't find the way now, it's a sign that those crumbs helped, soothing, relieving, caressing. My words were nailed through online sites and circles, sometimes being well received, other times full of heavy silences. Part of the blame belongs to me because I did not find words of relief and encouragement in my brain for those around me who were waiting for my thoughts and urges.
A man cannot break with the past, nor can he hide it "for nothing is hidden that will not be revealed, and nothing hidden that will not become known," but when his past is like that of many others then he is lost crowd. I read with purpose or anapoda, I loved the book and I knew I had something to say. The schools followed one after the other, bringing new and new readings, freely chosen or compulsory, but the greatest joy was living if I could say so in the library of life. With all the student arm, being a chimney sweep, I devoured indiscriminately but under the guidance of hundreds of volumes. But as appetite comes eating and leaves if he wants, I remained an insatiable gourmet. Later, my job allowed me to continue consuming the right words, slowly learning the taste of e-books. My computer was my companion and apprentice, enduring all the hardships without a hitch. I wrote with joy, with pain, with my soul in my mouth or leisurely as I was given to feel and live. But considering that the long word is the poverty of man, let us give to Caesar what is Caesar's and Poetry all that is hers.
And if I still arrived like Caesar at the banks of the poetic Rubicon, I dare say "those jacta est". And because the dice were thrown, let's set fire to the ships so that they have no way to return except "under the shield". Living in the sign of the word. By the word.