the truth is, we ran out of time...

I thought I'd wake up to a beautiful sunrise. I thought I'd take the world and spin it on my finger and shape it the shape of you and I. But my sunrise was actually an eclipse. The world was far too heavy for me to lift, let alone spin or mould it into anything other than what it is.

So tell me now, after I have made you dream, how am I meant to make you forget all those hopes? How do I make it okay to erase every wish, every glimmer? I feel like I can't let you think them any longer, not even in the eventuality that I will one day be able to make your dreams come true again. We are so alone, so apart, so torn by contradictory yearnings that only measure the distance between us, while doing nothing to shorten it.

I have said this countless times, and it has somehow still not become familiar. Waiting is the only way in which I find it impossible to pass the time; it feels incomplete, like I am jumping seconds or lengthening minutes, trying to find the reason for why I am. You know you are my reason, but when you are not there, it isn't likely that I find a suitable way to find you close to me in my surroundings.

Yet you always let me wait. You said you'd tell me what you decided to do. You never bothered to text that decision, call and tell me what it was, leave an offline message, any of the countless things you could have done to tell me not to wait. I think you don't really fully understand the amount I worry when I can't know what you're doing and when I don't want to call because some part of me that will always be too proud to admit this in front of you, thinks that you're probably busy with stuff that is none of my business, since you failed to inform me what it was. And then, with a little pang of something curious, stuck between jealousy and the feeling of being betrayed, I realise I probably make no difference, that I probably have no right to know what you're doing or when you are because, no matter how much love or affection exists between us, it is still your life, and not ours.

And I know you will tell me it's not like that. But it is. We are as intertwined as seasons are, as the cycles of nature are, as the phases of the moon are, but we are also as different as summer is from winter, as different as withered flowers are from blooming buds, as different as a crescent moon is from a full one. Try as it may, the moon will never catch the sun in its race up in the sky. Consequently, maybe, try as I might, I will never be enough, deep down, for either of us. I will always want to be more than I am to you, while what you want will be concealed behind your attempts at convincing both of us that I am what you want. And maybe, somehow, I am. But then I am not what you need.

I hope it is fun, and just because this time I simply can't bring myself to pick up the phone and text and see what happened, I hope, over and over again, I hope until every bone in my body secretly covets this, that you are ok and taking care and having fun. But mostly that you are okay. Because, in almost just as secret way, I'm worried sick that something happened and I might have lost the best thing in my life.

Please be okay. That's the last thing I'll ever ask, I promise.

acum cunosc in parte, dar atunci voi cunoaste pe deplin...

stiu ca timpul e ireversibil. facand parte din noi, nu ne lasa pe noi sa facem parte din el. e atat de efemer, si totusi atat de omniprezent, o prezenta tacuta, dar semnificativa, greoaie. neputinta noastra de a-i schimba cursul ne transforma in complicii lui, constienti de propria noastra complicitate, dar incapabili sa schimbam in orice fel raporturile dintre noi insine si timp. in aceasta alianta bizara, noi suntem cei manipulati de propriul destin, prea amplu, in prea stricta legatura cu timpul pentru a putea fi, la randul sau, schimbat. nu stim niciodata cand brusc aceasta forta se va intoarce de partea noastra, ne va surade sau face un semn spre a stii incotro ne indreptam.

tot ceea ce cunoastem este iluzoriu, atemporal. daca stiu cum esti tu in momentul asta, imi este imposibil sa prezic cum vei fi in momentul imediat urmator, sau cum ai fost cu multe momente in urma. daca ma gandesc la tine, distanta face trecerea timpului sa para irealizabila, cand defapt trecerea timpului cunoaste mai multe despre tine decat cunosc eu. numai aceasta calatorie incapatanata si repetitiva a acelor de ceas stie cu cate clipe ti-a imbatranit viata, pe langa cate ganduri a trecut, cate soapte a auzit. stie schimbarile din vocea ta sau miscarea ritmata a degetelor tale cand se joaca impasibil pe masa. stie sa-ti asculte tacerile mai bine, stie ce inseamna fiecare oftat, iti stie privirile secrete pe care, poate, distanta ma va impiedica sa le stiu si eu, vreodata. mersul sacadat al minutelor, orelor, asemenea unui rau care serpuieste printre dealuri si prin munti, acest mers calm, niciodata in intarziere, ne cunoaste destinele, ne innoada sansele, ne desparte si ne apropie ca pe doua scoici care se izbesc una de alta si ricoseaza in sipotele valurilor la mare, regasindu-se un moment in licarirea apei si pierzandu-se apoi la fel de neasteptat in malul asteparii fara sfarsit.

asa ca ne retragem in imaginatie, in amintiri, singurele noastre tertipuri impotriva timpului, singurele lucruri la care putem reveni oricand, la care putem apela pentru compasiune, si regretele unui timp care nu stie decat sa mearga inainte ne cuprind, ne sparg intr-o mie de bucati care spera sa se intalneasca, printre atomi si molecule, inca o data, si inca o data, pana la sfarsitul vremii. in propriile noastre minti putem fi impreuna, existenta timpului o notiune pur abstracta, de care existentele noastre pur imaginative nu atarna nici un pic. dimensiunile se rastoarna in amintirile noastre, si ni se pare pentru un moment, cel mai scurt pe care il putem fura din cand in cand, ca niciodata n-am fost despartiti. dar realitatea este un subordonat fidel timpului, care asculta cu desavarsire de dorintele acestuia, prefacand visul in scrum, aducand imaginatia pe firul actiunilor ce nu se vor petrece niciodata ca in inchipuirile noastre.

in fine, ne inchidem in palate de fildes numite sperante, zavorate cu incapatanare, ascunse de vreme in globuri de cristal. dar si aici timpul isi gaseste puterea, lasandu-ne sa intrezarim toate celelalte momente de speranta, ce asteapta aliniate ca un pluton ironic de executie, fiecare dorinta inceputul si sfarsitul urmatoarei. parca si lacrimile par o jertfa, apa in care timpul sa-si depuna victoriile, una cate una, caci, el, fata de noi, are suficient...timp. pentru el calatoria nu se sfarseste niciodata, caci el este niciodata. in fata lui nu suntem decat inca doua pete de culoare intr-un tablou prea vast si prea abstract pentru a mai conta. nimic nu indupleca timpul, nu-l convinge sa incetineasca, nu-l convinge ca unii oameni vor sa traiasca si ultima secunda. el nu promite nimanui nimic, nu lasa pe nimeni sa guste o data in viata una din secundele ce vor fi. apropie si desparte cu aceiasi usuratate.

asa ca ne vedem, pentru a nu stiu cata oara, prinsi de acest timp, care nu doboara constructii, nu desparte mari sau oceane, nu schimba cursul istoriei, ci doar pe acela al prezentului. in fata lui armele noastre cad, rapuse ca de o boala inexplicabila, iar noi, sortiti esecului perpetuu, nesfarsit, ne departam de noi insine si ne regasim in celalalt. e singurul lucru pe care timpul nu-l poate schimba, diminua, modifica in orice fel. e singurul lucru care ne-a ramas, singurul lucru pe care il aveam de la bun inceput, singurul care poate face fata. si, tacuti, singuri, ne iubim unul pe celalalt, in afara amintirilor, regretelor, iluziilor, sperantelor. e iubire pura, in stadiul ei cel mai inalt, imposibil de inteles, mai ales de catre timp, care nu sta niciodata in loc sa simta, nu se opreste pentru sentimente, pentru a le gusta, pentru a le duce mai departe. dar iubirea sfideaza timpul, supravietuindu-i in fiecare era, epoca, mileniu, secol, iar in fata acestor batalii noi cadem prada singurei noastre alinari:

timpul e unul.

noi suntem doi.