History

 We write history every day. Our own, personal, tiny kind of history.

It's small, but it's still history. A small line on an enormous white piece of paper. A tiny colorful line that happens to intersect other tiny lines on its path. A microscopical line that gets lost in the infinity.

It's funny, really. 'History' is such a big word. It encompasses such a vast volume of grandness and greatness and eternity. And we, as human beings, represent these tiny dots that you can't even tell apart from a fair distance. Yet we, insignificant creatures, write history every second. We, trivial animated things, are capable of excellence. Through our thoughts, words and actions.

And I have to admit, such an idea is kind of hard to ingest. On the other hand, it also creates a rather haunting sensation of randomness. Maybe even chaos.

It is random indeed - all of it. When we're born, who our parents are and what they've done with their lives up to that point, who their parents were and how each and every one of these people has been raised. How we're being raised. How other incidents happen to occur around us. How these incidents affect us. Our each and every choice. Every single word we utter. Every smile we smile and tear we cry. Every road we take, and every story we write without even realizing. And then there are all these people that enter our life by choice or chance. The way they act, talk, think, respond to random factors, actions, words. Their dreams and goals - short term or long term.

Our dreams. Each and every little dream or ideal that we develop.

All these things, and so many others, when turned into reality, create the world as we know it. Right now. This very second. And from this very point, it falls into our hands to write the rest of it. All the history that's left unwritten. Every single letter of it.

So, just how capable do *you* feel to write history?

Stillness.

Quiet mornings. Those mornings when you just wake up and you don't even want to move. Not because you're tired (even though you kind of are) and you want to go back to sleep. Not because you feel sick (even though your stomach hurts for no reason). Not because you're paralyzed in any way (but yes, this emptiness feels pretty paralyzing, if you put it that way). You just wake up and you feel blank and all you can do is sit there in bed with freezing toes, facing the ceiling, staring at nothing in particular. And it's not even one of those moments when you get lost in your own thoughts (ahh that would at least be something). No sir. You just lay still and blank. No particular thought, or need, or desire. Nothing. Just you, as blank as a fresh piece of paper.

And as you sit there, counting the seconds - 'cause it didn't take you long to get to the point where you realized that counting the seconds is all that you can do, you start feeling more and more annoyed by the stillness and emptiness of it all.

Good morning, Monday. I'm as blank as I'll ever be. I have no idea what I want or need. I just... exist. Breathe. Waste time and space. And right now, on a rather cloudy Monday morning, this is all I have to offer to the world.

imi era atat de dor...

... sa zambesc. sa zambesc fara motiv. sa zambesc ca un copil bleg o zi intreaga. iar apoi sa se intample ceva care sa ma intristeze, si totusi sa ajung acasa si sa ma apuce iar zambitul prostesc.
mi-era atat de dor de mine. mi-era atat de dor de increderea pe care o aveam in lumea asta si in visele mele. mi-era dor sa cred ca pot. mi-era dor sa cred ca viata asta este molipsitor si sufocant de frumoasa. mi-era dor de zambetul meu tamp.

mi-era dor sa cred ca lucrurile se vor schimba in bine daca am suficienta rabdare. si eram atat de aproape de a renunta complet la speranta asta infantila.

si mi-era nespus de dor sa pot sa fiu copil din nou. sa pot sa pun capul pe perna si sa zambesc si sa nu imi pese daca ceilalti ma judeca, pentru ca eu sunt eu, si pentru mine eu sunt poate cea mai importanta persoana. aproape. dar hai sa nu intram in existentialisme acum. dragostea o servesc pe post de desert la micul dejun maine dimineata, cand o voi savura cu zambetul pe buze.

mi-era dor sa cred. sa cred in ceva cu toata fiinta mea. indiferent cat de mic si neinsemnat ar putea fi acel lucru. iar acum acel lucru este chiar viitorul meu. si stiu ca peste ceva timp voi fi iar deprimata si ingropata in probleme total inutile in care ma arunc singura. dar acum sunt fericita. si scriu cuvintele astea din inima.

sunt fericita. iubesc. imi iubesc zambetul, pentru ca mi-a fost atat de dor de el incat credeam ca l-am pierdut definitiv. imi iubesc fericirea si increderea si vointa si cel mai mult imi iubesc pofta de viata pe care abia ce mi-am recapatat-o. pentru ca toate cuvintele astea sunt despre mine. azi sunt egoista, pentru ca mi-a fost atat de dor sa fiu fericita incat nu ma mai satur.

azi mi-am ales viitorul. si are un gust atat de dulce. si un pic acrisor.

---

and for all those who thought i'd run out of love by now, here i go again.

pain.

'why am i here? why does it feel like i need this pain? is it because i love? is it because this is the closest thing i have to feeling? is it because i'm selfish? is it because it makes me feel better about everything?'
'you need pain because it's never-ending. you need pain because it doesn't involve the rest of the world. you need pain because you can create and re-create it time and time again in your heart. you need pain because love scares you. you always run away from love, because somewhere in your heart you are afraid that love fades away in time.'
'i don't believe that love fades away. true love never fades away.'
'true. but you can't live without change. and love brings stability. love brings peace.'
'i like peace.'
'yes... you like peace. the way you like the subway. it takes you places, but you still prefer a car.'
'that's not fair. this is stupid, it's all stupid. why would i run away from love?'
'because you're such a dreamer. because you believe that true love brings along perfection.'
'and it does.'
'you believe true love turns this whole world into a better place.'
'and it does.'
'... you believe that true love makes routine go away. you believe that true love creates never-ending special moments.'
'but... it does.'
'honey, this world kills romance. no matter how much love you spread around. i know how you feel, and your view is beautiful. but this is the real world. and there's this part of you that realizes the actual truth. it's that part that makes you run away when things get too close to finally being perfect.'
'nonsense. why would it do that?'
'because the thought that this world might actually crush that view of yours scares you so bad that you can't control yourself. you go into this coma state and that cynical part of yours takes over and puts an end to anything that could possibly take you so high, just to make sure that there's no possible way for you to fall from there.'
'am i that fucked?'
'i wish i could say differently... but i'm afraid i can't.'
'so what, it's like pain is my only way?'
'maybe one day... maybe the day when things will be so right that the cynical part won't be able to take over anymore...'

maybe i need pain... maybe it's because i love too much, or think too much, or talk too much. maybe this all just bullshit, maybe i'm just stupid.
maybe 'without pain, no one would appreciate the good moments in life.'...
maybe i believe that i have to feel all this pain. maybe i feel like i need to make things right, and this is the only way i found.
maybe i'm selfish, and i need to be different.
maybe i need redemption.

maybe... maybe, somehow, everything makes perfect sense.

microscopie la rece.

'uhh, iar m-am pierdut printre randuri.'
'ce vrei de fapt?'
'cum adica? vroiam doar sa port o conversatie aberata.'
'nu, adica ce vrei cu adevarat. tu, cu toata fiinta ta. ce iti doresti ?'
'paaaai... sa ma mut la new york, sa ...'
'nu. ce iti doresti mai presus de orice.'
'sa fiu fericita?'
'lasa asta, asta ne dorim toti. dar unii gasesc fericirea in a colectiona timbre. deci, fericirea ta pe unde zace? ce iti doresti dincolo de tot universul asta?'
'am obosit sa fiu cinica... asa ca am sa iti raspund. si am sa fiu sincera. cu mine macar. vreau iubire. iubire in cea mai pura forma, iubire absoluta, iubire nemarginita, iubire care te face sa intelegi toate tainele sufletului si ale nemuririi, iubire care te transforma, care te omoara si te invie, iubire care nu te lasa sa nu zambesti clipa de clipa. iubire care te face sa iti dai seama ca nu mai ai nevoie de cuvinte frumoase ca sa o exprimi, pentru ca simpla ei prezenta iti indulceste fiecare cuvant, fara efort. iubire cameleonica, iubire care nu te lasa niciodata sa cazi in abisul monotoniei. iubire impartasita, iubire incontrolabila, iubire ideala. si oricat de pompos suna totul, iubirea despre care vorbesc este cea mai simpla forma a iubirii. este iubirea pe care o gasesti printr-un simplu zambet al persoanei potrivite. este iubirea care se instaleaza in inima ta intr-o fractiune de secunda si ramane acolo pentru o eternitate, indiferent de orice alte circumstante.'
'si crezi ca o astfel de iubire exista?'
'nu cred. stiu.'
'atunci?'
'atunci ce?'
'ce mai faci aici, in varful patului, infasurata intr-un halat de baie, cu fereastra deschisa, ascultand trilurile pasarilor si ale masinilor, scriind toate lucrurile astea?'
'mi-e frica.'
'de ce ti-e frica? nu spuneai tu ca iubirea asta a ta face totul universul sa se transforme in ceva ideal?'
'ba da. doar ca... nu stiu sigur... nu stiu. nu inteleg. daca stiu ce vreau, de ce sunt inca aici? de ce imi pierd viata invartindu-ma intr-un cerc vicios lamentabil? de ce ... de ce iubirea suprema care constituie in ochii mei cel mai important lucru din toate cate exista nu ma tine acolo unde stiu ca vreau sa fiu? de ce... de ce fac tot ceea ce fac? de ce se intampla totul asa? de ce... de ce nici macar eu nu ma mai inteleg?'
'poate ca inca nu trebuie sa te intelegi. poate ca inca nu e momentul ca iubirea ta eterna sa infloreasca. poate ca tot universul tau e precum un puzzle superb - care nu transmite nici un adevar suprem sau vreun sentiment ideal pana in momentul in care nu cad toate piesele in locul in care trebuie sa sfarseasca. poate ca tocmai faptul ca iti doresti atat de mult ceva ce stii ca exista te impiedica din a te grabi. poate ca farama de suflet care te implora sa ai rabdare, de dragul tau, de dragul de a vedea totul devenind realitate intr-un mod perfect, are dreptate. poate ca toate cuvintele astea in care ai descris ceea ce iti doresti sunt atat de stangace tocmai pentru ca inca nu a sosit momentul in care sa asimilezi si sa accepti dragostea asta nemarginita care te chinuie. poate ca inca nu e cazul. si stiu ca ai atatea contraargumente si intrebari pentru tot ceea ce am spus, dar nu intreba nimic. stii ca am dreptate.'
'poate ca ar trebui sa fac si eu o calatorie pana la mecca.'
'ai luat-o razna?'
'nu. era o figura de stil. toti avem in sufletul nostru o calatorie spirituala ce trebuie transpusa in realitate. am folosit mecca drept destinatie pentru ca am simtit nevoia sa trag putin lucrurile inspre un fundament real.'
'cine sa te mai inteleaga?'
'nu cred ca e prea mare lucru de inteles in momentul asta. tot ce pot sa fac e sa astept, sa sper, sa nu ma leg de lucruri fizice, sa renunt la atasamente, si sa cred. cu toata fiinta.'
'si sa iti amintesti ceea ce gandesti acum si data viitoare cand o sa iti vina sa te dai cu fundul de pamant si sa plangi pana iti ies ochi din orbite.'


'no promises. people make moments.' (thanks, nova.)
whatever will be, will be.
'cause i can't promise you anything more than my love.

brick by boring brick.

dear diary,

sunt trista. trista in modul ala patetic in care ti-e scarba. nici sa-mi plang de mila nu mai sunt in stare. stau si ma holbez cu-n zambet patrat la coltul ecranului, asteptand sa se face ceasul 00.01, pentru ca 4 zerouri sunt prea deprimante in momentul asta. si ca garnitura, servesc minim 20 de minute de fredonat 'we'll dig a deep hole to bury the castle', pentru simplul motiv ca imi este mult prea lene sa imi descarc melodia, iar apoi sa o ascult pe repeat in incercarea de a retine ceva mai mult de 2 versuri. nu ca as avea ceva mai solemn de facut. pentru ca asta e adevarul, dear diary. e trist, dar e sambata seara, iar eu stau in pat cu picioarele incrucisate si meditez la durerea de burta care nu-mi da pace de mai bine de 24 de ture de ceas. si in acelasi timp ma intreb de ce e literatura romaneasca atat de penibila. dar hai lasa, ca astea iar sunt discutii fara rost.
si stii ce e si mai trist? nu, nu cinismul - cu ala m-am impacat deja. (si in plus, m-am saturat sa tot vorbesc despre asta over and over again.) faptul ca am ajuns sa scriu de plictiseala. i mean, how lame is that, huh? si in fond, ce altceva mai bun am de facut? sa ma holbez la stampila de pe mana drepta, care nici acum nu s-a luat, desi mi-am inrosit-aproape-invinetit mana cu peria verde care sta agatata pe perete? si sa imi aduc aminte de noaptea trecuta? sau poate ar trebui sa incerc niste activitati mondene, cum ar fi sa imi pictez unghiile in culori de buburuza plimbata prin mall-urile din straintate si parfumata cu chanel.
si concluzia e ca 'nu am chef azi', my love. as vrea sa pot sa desenez, ca sa te lamuresc in sfarsit in legatura cu filmul ce ruleaza on a daily basis in sufletul meu. dar a naibii natura nu m-a inzestrat cu prea multe talente. asa ca tot ce pot sa fac este sa ma intorc pe dos in cuvinte, si sa sper ca in seara asta nu ai sa imi strivesti literele sub degetele bronzate de la picioare. de la prea mult plimbat prin parc. well i'm sorry, baby, nu ma prea omor dupa parcuri. prefer dormitoarele. imi respira sufletul un aer mai cald cand ma pierd prin asternuturi, si nici nu trebuie sa imi fac griji in legatura cu gazele care ajung prin te miri ce miracol pe sub hainele proaspat spalate.
dar nu te teme, dragule, am incetat sa ma mai zbat. mai nou doar merg agale pe carari nebatute de lume, si ma bucur de cerul albastru. ca acum vine 2012 si nu stim care sa ne lamentam mai cu foc si in culori mai de jale ca se sfarseste lumea.

idealism.

adica ala care s-a stins in dimineata asta. acelasi care ma tine for some reason in fata laptopului cand pe mine ma doare stomacul si vreau sa mananc ciorba acra cu ardei iuti. adica porcaria care ne face sa ne aruncam banii pe filme siropoase si noptile pe vise frumoase.
un rahat in ploaie, my darling. aia ni se serveste pe tava in fiecare zi, oriunde mergem. acelasi lucru pe care ni-l servim unul altuia.
nu, nu ma privi cu ochi mariti de ciuda, trebuia sa vina momentul in care idealista din mine sa isi bage picioarele in tot. pentru ca altfel nu se mai poate. altfel o sa ajung inchisa intr-un spital de nebuni mult prea tanara. si nu vreau asta, my wealthy sweetheart, inca nu m-ai dus la cumparaturi la milano, si ar fi pacat sa ratez o astfel de experienta.

'iar esti cinica?'

nu iar. am avut o revelatie in dimineata asta. doua, de fapt. prima este ca de fapt m-am nascut cinica, si toti anii astia doar am incercat sa ascund treaba asta sub zambete frumoase si rochite dantelate - probabil de frica oamenilor care ar stramba din nas in fata replicilor mele taioase si mi-ar inchide gura cu un film de dragoste. si stii cum sunt eu, baby - orice film de dragoste ma inmoaie mai ceva ca cerealele din bolul cu lapte. iar a doua revelatie mi-a trecuta grabita prin dreptul urechilor si aproape ca s-a pierdut printre suvitele mele albe (de la lumina neonului albastru). am realizat ca am nevoie de lumea asta imputita. am nevoie de suferinta de pe planeta asta, si de crime, si de batai, si de inimi frante mai mult ca orice altceva. pentru ca in fond, scrisul e the place i visit when i need redemption. and faith. iar fara scris, eu nu sunt eu, tu nu esti tu, iar lumea asta continua sa franga inimi si sa impuna norme penibile si sa ne ingroape in tristete si datorii.

asa ca iarta-ma ca-s cinica, iarta-ma ca am nevoie sa uit de tot uneori, iarta-ma ca ma chinui de trei ori pe zi - dupa fiecare masa pe care o ratez - sa omor idealista din mine. iarta-ma ca spun lucruri care nu au sens. si ca fac lucruri inutile - cum ar fi sa ma opresc la 5 dimineata pe strada sa ii dau unei batrane o tigara mentolata si un foc. aveam mainile inghetate si aproape ca am inceput sa plang cand am incercat sa scot bricheta din geanta.

de dor, bai boule, ca azi-noapte a fost frumos afara, iti spun eu, ca am mers o ora jumate pe jos.

poate.

poate ca ambitiile mele sunt prea mari pentru lumea asta mult prea mica, sau poate ca gandesc prea putin, sau vorbesc prea mult, sau plang prea zgomotos. poate chiar mananc prea mult - sau prea putin - cine sa mai inteleaga?
poate ca pana la urma nimic din toate astea nu are nici un sens. poate ca dragostea reprezinta doar o modalitate himerica de a ne irosi vietile, sufletele si banii. poate ca fericirea in esenta ei ar trebui definita ca ceva ce ne face in permanenta neferciti, prin prisma insuficientei permanente de care ne izbim, precum se lovesc toate gazele de pe autostrada de cate-un parbriz ciobit pe alocuri. poate ca gandurile sunt de fapt niste porcarii, si singurele lucruri care ar trebui cu adevarat considerate ca avand insemnatate ar trebui sa fie obiectele, lucrurile cu forma materiala, care exista in mod cert - data fiind materialitatea lor ce poate fi demonstrata fara probleme.
poate ca toate bolile care nu se manifesta la nivel fizic sunt doar niste aberatii, si de fapt nimeni nu este cu adevarat nebun, sau deprimat, sau inclinat inspre omoruri in serie, si totul este de fapt doar o mare manipulare a maselor. poate ca de fapt exista viata pe pluto, si ingerii traiesc in acelasi loc cu papagalii - vezi aripile.
poate ca de fapt nu o sa ajung sa fac nimic cu viata mea, oricat ma bat cu pumnul in piept ca eu vreau sa schimb lumea. poate ca o sa sfarsesc cu o slujba de rahat, cu un sef frustrat, cu mama pe capul meu la fiecare 3 zile, avand companie permanenta din partea a doua pisici mari si grase care nu mai sunt de prea mult timp macar dragute.

sau poate ca toate astea sunt doar niste tampenii majore, si doar am dormit mult prea putin azi-noapte si mintea mi-a fugit de-acasa.

i am my own hero.

'azi te vreau.'
'atunci poti sa ma ai.'

ia-ma de mana si du-ma undeva departe. priveste-ma in ochii mari si creduli si minte-ma cum stii tu mai bine. spune-mi o poveste, dar trebuie sa imi promiti ca va fi o poveste fara sfarsit. povestile cu sfarsit ma deprima, pentru ca toate se termina la fel: cu un zambet frant.

'cum? ce tot vorbesti? in povestea noastra nu e nevoie de zambete frante si lucruri triste.'
'baby, noi nu o sa avem niciodata o poveste. de ce vrei sa strici tot ceea ce e frumos intre noi punand totul intr-o poveste?'

povestile sunt precum cutiile in care arunci lucrurile care te coplesesc. prea firave ca sa poti cuprinde universul in ele, si prea lipsite de aer. lasa ce e intre noi sa zboare. mai bine imi oferi o pasare atunci cand ma vezi plangand. pasarile sunt singurele fiinte care au inteles catusi de putin din modul in care functioneaza universul asta. nu rade, stii ca am dreptate.

'dar puiule, cum ramane cu povestile frumoase, cu povestile de dragoste si cu finalurile fericite?'
'prostii. minciuni. aberatii ale unor adulti care refuza sa se maturizeze si atunci se ascund in cutii si uita sa mai respire. si din lipsa de oxigen, incep sa aiba halucinatii. ca sa stii si tu, asa apar toate minciunile despre dragoste. din cauza unor neica-nimeni dintr-astia care isi rateaza carierele pentru niste cuvinte frumoase si vreo doua-trei clipe de fericire efemera.'
'nu inteleg. cand ai devenit atat de cinica? iubesti si tu la randul tau, cum poti sa arunci cu toate cuvintele astea in vant fara sa tresari macar?'
'cinica am devenit in secunda in care ai incetat sa ma mai cunosti. cat despre tresariri si tremurat, lasa asta. emotiile sunt de prisos cand vorbesti despre dragoste. dragostea trebuie tratata precum un criminal cu sange rece, care nu e in stare sa isi asimileze propriile sentimente. dar nu te teme, baby. te iubesc in continuare, la fel de mult.'

doar pentru ca sunt cinica, nu inseamna ca nu am inima. si vezi tu, asta e pacatul tuturor - cinici sau nu. oricat incearca, oricate stiu, nu pot sa fuga de ceea ce le dicteaza inima...

asa ca spune-mi o poveste, baby. orice poveste vrei tu. minte-ma in noaptea asta, vreau sa cred din nou in nemurire, macar pentru o secunda. iubeste-ma, raneste-ma, fa-ma sa simt.

Everything for free...

“I don’t know who you are…”

There are moments in your life when you just want to die.

.
“But you seem very nice…”

The pain is so immense that you don’t even want it to go away anymore.

.
“So will you talk to me?”

Because you know that there’s no way for it to ever disappear.

.

“Shall I tell you a story?”
No way to ever forget it.
.

“Should I tell you a dream?”

And the worst part is that…

.

“They think I’m crazy…”
… you are all alone when this happens.
.

“But they don’t know that I like it here…”
Truth be told, we all end up alone in moments like these.
.

“It’s nice in here…”

And we eventually accept it.

.

“I get everything for free…”
Most of the times, we accept it for someone else, though.
.

“Have you been here before?”

We make a sacrifice.

..

“Shall I show you around?”
Because, come to think of it…
.

“It’s very pretty…”

… it’s way easier to bear your own pain…

.

“Have you come here to stay?”
… than to see the one you love dealing with it all.
.

“Well, you sure picked a day…”

Way easier to walk away…

.

“My name is Billy…”
… than to stay and let the other one suffer.
.

“It's my birthday, you're invited to my party down the hall…”

Not easy.

.

“Where I go, what I'll become or who I am or what I'll be…”
Just easier…
.

“I’ll never know…”

Selfless, if you will…

.

“But I am sure that I’ll get everything for free…”

Special (for B.)

B.: Yeah, but with all these resemblances, she's still not you.

Me: What's that supposed to mean?

B.: You're special.

Me: Oh... Thanks. *smiles*

.

What does 'special' mean? Is it some kind of a label you earn because of something you do or say? Is it a label someone sticks on you out of affection or love? Is it something you're born with? Is it something you just are? Is it some kind of a warmth that people feel when they're around you? Is it some kind of a 'I am nice to people' label? Or, on the contrary, is it some label people stick on your face when you act all weird and genius-like and like a totally misunderstood artist? Is it something you choose to be? Or is it something you can't get rid of? Is it some kind of spell you put on some certain people in your life? Do people find you special from the first moment they see you? Or do they start feeling you're special once they get to know you? And if so, how well do they have to get to know you in order to decide that you're special? Does this vary from person to person? And after all, aren't we all special at a certain point? And one more thing: can you stop being special? Yes? Well, how do you do that? And if not, why not? Every good thing has its ending. Or... is being special a bad thing? Some kind of an unwanted label?

What does being special mean?

Blah, this was more of a... 'how many questions can you ask starting from a single word' thing. And aparently there are lost of questions to be asked. I won't deny it, some of these questions are really worthy of an answer, from where I'm standing. Some of them hit me on a daily basis. But some of them are there just to fill in the blanks in my head right now.

I guess I just realised that having someone to tell you that you're special really does make you feel that way. And it makes you feel warm inside. And outside.

---

Today I learnt that being special actually means a lot. Before tonigh I always used to say that we are all special. And I still believe that. It's just that being special simply is a special, comforting, warming thing, regardless of the fact that we are all special. 'Cause you know what? We might all be special, but each and every one of us is special in its own way. And that's what makes us unique.

---

Listening to: Katy Rose - Overdrive

Reading: Love The One You're With

Watching: Desperate Housewives Season 1, Episode 9

Playing: With my snow globe. (I am not sure how that's actually called.)

---

They all come here to find a scene

But end up girls on methadrine

Naked on a TV screen

The dreams that fall beneath my feet

Make my footsteps feel so sweet

But your kisses are my fait accompli.

(Katy Rose - Overdrive)

*Click to download song.

Music Vs. Lyrics And Beyond That

I was listening to Peyton's podcast (Peyton Sawyer from One Tree Hill, played by Hilarie Burton) and she was talking about the fact that there are 2 types of people: music people and lyrics people. She says that lyrics people tend to be analytical - trying to find the true hidden meaning of every single line of the songs, while music people only care about the beat.

So I was thinking... I had my 'I'm a lyrics person.' period and I also had my 'I'm all about the music.' days. But I guess I mostly care about the lyrics, since I tend to interpret everything and see things that aren't even there. Plus that I dance like a drunk sheep, so... the pure beat isn't exactly what touches me. I mean, yeah, I have my 'close your eyes and let the sound flow all around you and dream and dream and dream or just do nothing at all' moments, but those are rare. And even then, I usually feel like hearing some lyrics in the background, just so I can think of something random or maybe just focus on the lyrics without choosing a particular subject to focus on.

Peyton said that maybe sometimes it's easier to be a music person, 'cause you always take things slow, you're down to earth, you won't try to find a completely different meaning to everything and you don't risk to lose yourself into the darkness that often. (OK, Peyton only said that sometimes it seems easier to be a music person. The rest is on me.)

Also, I googled the whole music versus lyrics thing (isn't versus kind of a rigid term?) and I realized that I am just one of the many people who ask what's more important: music or lyrics? But I guess when I started writing this post I wasn't exactly thinking of this question in particular. I guess I had in mind something beyond that. I was wondering what's the relationship between music/lyrics and brain/heart. Is it like... If I like the lyrics in a song, it means that I am most probably a rational person, who always listens to her brain and never does reckless things? And if I happen to like the sound rather than the lyrics, it's my heart that's doing all the talking for me?

Because, honestly, I find this so terribly wrong. I mean, I am totally a lyrics person 99% of the time and I am the most incredibly reckless and heart-led person you'll ever meet. And what's with the whole 'the sound touches your heart' thing? 'Cause as far as I can see this, the sound will most probably make you move, have different reactions and sensations. And once again, as far as I know, mechanical reactions and physical sensations are controlled by our brain, not by our heart. And please, do not come up with the example about those feeling that come from the bottom of our hearts and make us cry or laugh or kill ourselves. You know very well that I'm talking about a completely different thing in here, so don't try to be a smart ass.

*pauses*

You know what I realized while writing all these things? That nothing makes any sense at all, if you stop and analyze it. I mean, look at what I just wrote. That I am talking about something different. But, come to think of it, I am not talking about such different things at all. And still, both of the arguments make perfect sense, don't they?

So maybe.. Maybe some things are simply pointless and stupid and pure non-senses. Or maybe they have more than one meaning and they make more sense than so many things in this whole world. Which sounds more likely. I mean, think of it for a second. And yes, I know that I use the 'think of it' phrase a lot, but... I am really hoping that someone will someday make all these things clear for me. So as I was saying, we tend to schematize and put everything under precise labels and sometimes we simply forget that there are thing which simply can't be labeled. Like music.

Music simply is. Music, be it music with lyrics or pure beat, is simply music. And it makes you cry, die, laugh, smile, write, sleep, dance, think, miss, play, compose, eat, draw, sew, talk, sing, paint your walls or hug some random stranger. Do you agree? Now look at all the actions I just wrote. At least half of them are totally analytical actions, while the other half is pure creation. But for all those actions, you need passion and you need conscious willing actions. Actions controlled by your head. So why on earth should we struggle to find any correspondence between music, lyrics and human elements (be them physical or not), when it all turns out to be a mix containing a little bit of everything?

As for the question I asked in the beginning of all this rambling, I am most definitely a lyrics person. First of all because I am a writer. So I appreciate words rather than any other aspect. And secondly because I am a full-time dreamer. And lyrics always make me dream. Of nothing in particular.

So how about you, strangers? Are you most likely to think of yourselves as music people or lyrics people?

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P.S. I was also thinking of starting my own podcast, but I quickly gave up the idea, 'cause I'd probably be terrible at it. *laughs* No, wait, I am actually sure about the terrible part.

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Today I learnt the concept of non-sense. And you know what? There's nothing in this world that makes more sense than a total non-sense.

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Listening to: Bethany Joy Lenz - If You're Missing

Reading: Love The One You're With

Watching: Happy Tree Friends - Candy Eye

Playing: Cook

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Don’t it get lonely out there, little darling

Well come on home

I’ll be here with open arms

To hold you

When you arrive

I’ll be here with open arms

To show you

Where you belong

If you’re missing come on home.

(Bethany Joy Lenz - If You're Missing)

*Click to download song.