Saturday, July 12, 2008

Petite anglaise

Yes, I guess this is what I would like to be. But am not. Not necessarily living in Paris, even though that would be amazing (have you noticed how often I use this word, amazing? I wonder why ...). I'm talking about an aspiring writer who starts up a blog and becomes famous. And write a book, and she actually becomes a writer. That's what she wrote as a profession in her marriage license.
She talks (well, writes) about her own life, about simple events in her life, about day-to-day little things, but people read them, reply to them, comment, and love it.
I could be the little Romanian in Montreal. Nothing too original about that, I know.
I can't wait to read the book. I guess I can go buy it. Can I afford it? With all the other things that I have to afford? I couldn't care less about money.
This is not even worth of being published. I guess I'm not either. But still, I'll press the button.

Saturday, July 05, 2008


I wrote about this before, about how time flies differently. About how years can go by and we don't realize, about how every single weekday we are waiting for Friday, but then we are so scared about counting those weeks that have passed, and make them into years. When you're happy, time flies. When you're miserable, time crawls by. It's my interpretation of Einstein's theory of relativity.
It is the most normal Saturday morning. I have no plans for today, it's beautiful outside and I should go out to enjoy the sun, but still feel like doing nothing. I am just sitting here, in front of the computer, trying to talk to somebody, to make myself heard, and drinking my morning coffee, sweet and hot, just the way I like it. I am tired. Of living. Of living this life. Always waiting for something, for someone, for a certain date, for a certain place to go to. Always waiting. Instead of living.
I will try to enjoy the sunshine outside.

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