I was walking with Tasha in the old center of Braila, with the stated purpose of giggling and letting ourselves get ecstatic about the Christmas tree lights, hopping through the snow and sharing an orange with pitiable frozen fingers. It smelled nice, of raw and fresh air, of youth and children with flushed cheeks. “Russian, look, Russian, it snows, it began to snow again!”. To close your eyes, to let your head back and pull the tongue out to feel the snowflakes melting on it. In today’s existence, I forgot that box of joys. In the existence started today, or yesterday, or the day before yesterday?, I’m not uttering any surprised “Ooooh!” in the morning when I wake up and have to do small-small eyes, of Chinese, blinded by the whiteness of pure snow surreptitiously littered during night. In recent years’ existence, I can only see the cold and flaccidity, the flu and hustle in the tram.
I’m kind of sad and a little angry regarding the way my existence follows for a few years now, I feel like a satellite that escaped the gravity and no longer dances gracefully on his quiet orbit. In that life, I wish I were a successful pianist. In this life I am a programmer. At least I can console myself with the thought that keys or keyboards, it is still called thin fingers petting. And it also means I took it through the tulips only a little. With one hand on the chin, with some sadness on the eyelashes and some even more disappointment under the ribs, I sat the other day and contemplated as to how we left 9 from childhood (and with the Sergeant, 10), determined through fire, bayonets, bullets and smoke, to become – if not a Peneş turkey (romanian word play, nn), at least a model among models, with many ambitions and a virgin ocean of dreams. In that life, I was standing with my dreamy eyes between curtains and lost in reverie, I was sulking about not growing up faster, that I have a lot of waiting till I could start my life and I can conquer the plan of getting to the top. A little later, with my life in my own hands, I sat lascivious and began to suffer from… lack of desire. Too much waiting, too less determination, too much gap between home and town, too much training, too less guidance. I got sad, I grieved hard as to how I dreamed myself fighting, facing life with my chest, warring with it! How I dreamed myself climbing existential stairs, in fact – what am I saying? – jumping over a few steps at once towards the peak that seemed just around the corner! Just to wake up in the heat of battle that I forgot my gun home, let alone overcoming obstacles and enemies!
In this existence, I found all the weapons that I would have ever needed. But as my style is to reveal to myself lessons of life out of any insignificant, small and irrelevant fact, I find that there are no enemies left that I can fight. Clear! Either the enemies died senile, of old age, waiting for me, or the battle had ended long ago, and I did not even show myself up at the front. Forfait.
