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?

Ramasite.

... si vii de fiecare data, si imi sfasii sufletul in mii de fasii invizibile.
Te asezi pe banca ninsa pe care imi petrec timpul in absenta ta, bandu-mi cafeaua si incercand sa nu ma gandesc la nimic, si imi distrugi fiecare mecanism de aparare, rand pe rand. Iti indrepti mana spre fata-mi obosita, iar apoi te opresti - aruncandu-ma intr-o asteptare dureroasa ce nu ia sfarsit niciodata.
... si apoi, cumva, privirea-mi fuge in directia chipului tau nins si gol.
Ochii-mi alearga, iar inima incearca in zadar sa tina pasul. Am uitat de ceva timp sa mai respir - probabil din momentul in care ti-am simtit mana incordandu-se. Iar gandurile... gandurile-mi sunt impleticite printre coridoare reci de lemn si zapada, fara vreo sansa reala de a fi salvate. Pana si eu ma impleticesc - asa nemiscata cum sunt - din cap pana in picioare - iar apoi pana in adancul sufletului.
... si desi timpul devine apasator de irelevant, simt ca privirea mea face inconjurul lumii in mii si mii de ani inainte sa o poata intalni pe a ta. Iar atunci cand asteptarea ia sfarsit, tacerea revine. Si toate celelalte lucruri dispar. Totul. ... dispare.
"... Cine esti? Ce vrei de la mine? De ce apari in viata mea, mereu, mereu, mereu, tulburandu-mi linistea, omorandu-mi gandurile, luandu-mi suflarea, amagindu-ma, chinuindu-ma, iubindu-ma tacut? Cine esti tu, sa ma infurii intr-o clipa, iar apoi sa faci toata mania sa se evapore instant, ca si cum nu ar fi fost niciodata acolo? Cine esti tu, sa te uiti adanc in ochii mei si sa intelegi toate mistere universului meu frant? Cine?... Sau poate ca tu nu intelegi nimic de fapt. Poate ca totul este doar o sarada de prost gust, iar eu sunt singura careia nu i s-a spus: "Stii, viata nu trebuie luata in serios. Nu te purta prosteste.". Sau poate nici macar nu ma mai iubesti. Poate nu m-ai iubit niciodata de fapt. Poate eu pentru tine sunt doar o straina cu o cafea in mana care sta pe aceeasi banca pe care te asezi si tu, in aceleasi zile in care te asezi si tu acolo."
... si as vrea sa pot sa dau glas tuturor acestor cuvinte, dar cand ma decid in sfarsit sa o fac, e prea tarziu. Tot misterul dispare, iar cafeaua mea este singurul lucru care mai ramane din tot ceea ce a fost. Si imi dau seama cat de ridicol e totul. Cat de stupid ar fi sa iti vorbesc de fapt. Mi-ai spune probabil ca-s nebuna. Si nu ai fi departe de adevar.
... si adevarul e ca... mana ta nu s-a incordat nici o secunda pentru o se indrepta inspre fata-mi palida, ci pentru a apuca ziarul facut sul in buzunarul paltonului maro pe care il porti in fiecare zi la munca. Adevarul e ca... privirea ta nu s-a indreptat niciodata inspre mine, ci mai degraba inspre aleea din spatele meu, in cautarea colegului de birou care intarzie in fiecare dimineata. Adevarul e ca... Toate gandurile mele, toate povestile mele... Se pierd toate undeva la jumatatea distantei dintre noi doi. Adevarul e ca... In niciuna din toate zilele astea in care impartasim un moment de tacere pe care il traiesc cu adevarat doar eu, nu am avut macar o data curajul sa ma uit cu adevarat in ochii tai sau sa iti vorbesc...
Iar azi, iubitul meu fara nume, aleg sa te detest. Pentru ca in fiecare zi ma lasi singura pe aceeasi banca roasa de timp, singura cu cafeaua ce s-a racit deja de cateva ore bune. Singura cu gandurile mele care devin realitate undeva intr-un univers in care eu am curajul sa iti zambesc macar.

Q.1

"It happened exactly one hundred days after I married Andy, almost to the minute of our half-past-three-o'clock ceremony. I know this fact not so much because I was an overeager newlywed keen on observing trivial relationship landmarks, but because I have a mild case of OCD that compels me to keep track of things. Typically, I count insignificant things, like the steps from my apartment to the nearest subway (341 in comfortable shoes, a dozen more in heels)." (Ellen, Love The One You're With)