si mi-ai furat o bicicleta.
ai pus-o-n fata portii,
ma pacaleai ca e racheta,
si ca ghiceste unde vreau s-ajung.
nu am stiut ca drumul e atat de lung.
avea o roata, si-aia stramba,
saua-i lipsea, defecte sa-mi ajunga!
nu am stiut sa o repar si, poate,
ti-am dat ‘napoi doara pe jumatate.
in loc de spite si ghidon,
ti-am luat o apa la bidon.
in loc de beculete colorate,
ti-am dat doar faruri de la aro, sparte.
si-mi pare rau ca eu m-am pacalit asa,
cu bicicleta ta pe jumatate, fara sa.
imi pare rau c-am insistat sa returnez
ceva facut de-o jumatate de chinez.
Ceaiul merge mana in mana cu poezia si frumusetea, cu linistea si bucuria. E simplu sa il gusti si sa il simti, si are povesti de spus. Nu sunt mare fan ceaiuri aromate, dar sunt fan al povestilor si al rozmarinului, asa ca am acceptat sa particip la evenimentul de lansare al ceaiului Sarbatoare de Primavara de la Fares, un ceai in editie limitata, care aduce surprize in fiecare cutie.
Sursa poza: Fares.
Mi-a placut povestea oamenilor de la Fares, spusa printre imagini cu campuri de lavanda si vorbe despre flora spontana care ajunge in canile noastre dimineata (sau seara, dupa gust) si mi-a placut tare mult ideea de a sarbatori primavara cu un amestec de sapte plante medicinale din inima Daciei. Plantele alese pentru a compune ceaiul acesta bogat si aromat natural au fost apreciate inca din timpurile dacilor si au fost prelucrate prin metode care respecta valoarea acelor vremuri. Pana si locul in care se afla culturile spune cat de mult inseamna pentru cei de la Fares traditia, caci toate plantele din ceaiurile lor sunt nascute in inima Daciei, langa Sarmisegetusa.
Ceaiul meu de primavara are armurariu, rostopasca, rozmarin, scai vanat, sulfina, sunatoare si valeriana, iar pentru fiecare dintre noi cutiile cu ceaiul Sarbatoare de Primavara vin cu o surpriza inedita – cate un magnet de frigider simbolizand fiecare din plantele ce compun ceaiul.
Pe 31 martie m-am apropiat de trecut, gustand din remedii vechi si crezute pierdute, remedii pe care Fares le-a cultivat cu drag si le-a ascuns in cutiute bine ticluite ce-si au loc in dulapioarele noastre de acasa si de la birou. In cutiutele astea bine ticluite gasim povesti de dinainte de Traian, povesti incepute de Andrei Farago in 1929 in Orastie, „La Leul de Aur” (prima farmacie, consemnata in 1697), povesti care n-au incetat, indiferent de valtorile vremilor prin care trecem… Fares a definit, probabil, traditia, iar acum ne cucereste prin inovatie.
Sometimes I feel like I am feeling too much, sometimes I feel like I am thinking too much. There’s never enough of one kind in me, and there’s always something that’s missing deep down inside. I’m not sure if all these feelings and all these thoughts are what I am supposed to live right now, but they are the only thing I have for myself, so I try to get by.
I try to get by past the indifference and past the heartache, past the people that hurt me, past the people that weren’t honest. Past all of those who didn’t have the balls to say things to my face, and past those who had the balls to say something mean and gratuitous, without a real base.
I try to get by past the people who take „please, forgive me” for granted, as they take me for granted. Past the people who think that, if I ever felt something towards them, that feeling will still be here forever and they can play that card anytime they wish.
I try to feel, without feeling too much, and I try to think, without overthinking. But this is all I am good at – overzealous feeling coupled with a big paranoid brain that never sleeps. And I can handle that, but can you handle me?!
We were liars, we were smoke.
That was utter, fuckin’ dope.
But we weren’t real or not,
I am supposed to. I forgot.
We were sunsets all around,
My hands buried all that ground,
All I did was scream and sleep,
With your claws inside me, deep.
We were once, but now we’re not.
Please, oh, please, just fuckin’ stop.
All this non sense, all this hate,
Look, it’s only half past eight.
I am not my mistakes,
I am not my dreams.
My desperation does not define me,
And my footsteps in the sand are the best thing I ever did.
I am not the food I eat,
Nor am I the souls I loved.
I am but a piece of wind
And filled with freedom and light.
I remember touches, here and there, as if those skins that were near me at one point were made of some kind of fabric only the universe knows.
I remember sounds that light up the room, even if all the drapes are down, and the smell of those sounds scare me more than death itself.
I remember how sweet is the color orange… No, the color red combined with orange, in the pale light of the sunset. That color used to sing me lullabies until I fell asleep, and at one beautiful, lonely point in my life, it was more than enough.
I do not wish to remember all kisses I gave for nothing, all the embraces I lost to some people. All those moments of pure friendship spent on people who thought I steal, I do evil, I am fat, or ugly, or nothing. All those moments when I wasn’t the number one choice I wish them forgotten, and buried, and burnt, and lost.
I remember being lighter. I remember being love. And now I want to come back to that point, because it was the only point I felt like home.
The self titled good boy
will pretend to ask and care
and he’ll pretend to just be there,
only that he’s so-so busy,
my darling,
but I swear I won’t treat you like a toy.
The self titled good boy
will ask if you prefer your boys dirty,
with manly attitude
and balls to spare,
and he’ll pretend to treat you like a queen.
Be careful when you break that screen.
