Ana Todor Blog Journey

Today was a safe day. I could pursue the dreams and the dinosaurs. There’s only one problem - the world is getting excreto-phage. I saw a pigeon picking up little bits of dog excrement on the street today. My own dog ate her own poop yesterday, while I was taking a shower and she begged to be taken out. And to make things worse, I had to review Fallout 3 for www.peopleplay.ro. Each time the protagonist was ordered to use the John, he drank fetid water from it and got sick with radiation.

I ask again… is this right? Maybe I’m shamefully young and I keep missing details. But I don’t think recession should take the form of exaggerated recycling.

I’m a royal pain in the ass. Please feed me to the crocodiles, your majesty!

I sit and I stare. Wide as the monitor is, it seems today it can’t suck me into its deep universe.

Dreaming what has already been dreamed

No, not today. Electric light hits my face, and my pulsating eyes. Sound intertwines with my silence in the far corner of the room. “Today I introduced myself to my own feelings”. Good ol’ Anathema. I twist my head like a rickety contraption. To scratch my thoughts against the sound. Blogging isn’t easy. Everybody thinks that squashing some words against bits and bytes solves everything. That with their words and thoughts the world is suddenly better. And then the pain comes. The doubt that maybe you’re spamming not only the Internet, but the whole universe. The doubt that everything has been said before, and done. A glimpse of the fact that you’re probably just another one to round off the pattern in an array of feelings. That’s why I sometimes find it better to keep silent. Silence is confortable.

What does one year mean? One year means you can share a pillow but not your feelings. It means more make-up and higher heels. Numbness. That formal feeling Emily Dickinson describes:

Present

After great pain a formal feeling comes–
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions–was it He that bore?
And yesterday–or centuries before?

The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.

This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow–
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

One year more seems to be one year less. One year, and you’re lost in your reflection, tapping your delicate reality to make sure it’s real.