Of Mice and Men

it didn't end with more clarity, but I guess that's not exactly a tragedy - I just feel a bit older; several more memories, some perfectly insipid ones - some vivid enough to be mistaken for anticipations; torrents that rise all of a sudden, the cloudless sky;

all sorts of unpleasant emotions. the fear, the worries; fear of fear, fear of life, the awareness of the inability to admit it to anyone;

I feel that all anxiety has become too much - one breaks up, another one takes its place;

somewhere out there there are people who are happy; I know, it’s a perfectly real occurrence, one that occurs frequently enough to be worth allocating a particular word in each language (at least I suppose so);

Sunday night mood; feeling at the same time both despair towards a death that doesn't come and complete availability to live one thousand lives within one single deadly time;

I've driven today about 1000 miles - my math, probably grossly inaccurate (but right now I'm too lazy to look on a map) - from Romania to Italy, at Mestre, and back - and, honestly, the whole thing with Europe makes sense as long as there are fictional borders and a large majority of people who backs them;

late at night, I’m tired; spending day after day being at the same time in tune with the group and hostile to it; at the same time at war with they and at war with myself - is exhausting; the way of all flesh, one might add…