Traces of magic.
Today, all my thoughts came out in verses. A strange feeling for someone who’s always craving more words, who finds joy in crafting stories that paint a full picture.
For the longest time, writing was my one and only attempt to take up space. That which I could not say out loud, I would say in writing. These letters are living proof of that.
I started writing here as a way to reclaim my voice. To shout what I once whispered. To dive and dig deep, dissect my thoughts and feelings and put them on display.
Turns out some of them want to be whispers, again.
It’s not that they don’t deserve to be heard. They do. But sometimes less really is more, and more words would just taint and dilute that which I’m trying to say.
I keep telling people I find it hard to say I’m writing poetry. I’ve always thought that particular phrasing is reserved for people who do this for a living, for published writers, for people who’ve made it - whatever that means.
So, instead, I say I write verses. They don’t rhyme, nor do I want them to (not yet or maybe not ever). The ones I’ve come up with so far are quite short, which instantly sets them apart from any other thing I’m writing these days.
They’re tiny strings of words, serving up a glimpse of a thought or feeling.
The biggest twist of them all is that I started writing ‘poetry’ in my own native language (as well as in English). My fingers fumble as I type the words on my keyboard, afraid I will fail to convey my thoughts in a way that does them justice and makes sense to anyone other than me.
And still, I find little traces of magic in these whispers.
As I was saying, today all my thoughts came out in verses. Probably because I found my own feelings reflected in the gray skies above. So I had no choice but write them down.
The verses below are in Romanian. I admit I tried to translate them but I failed miserably, so I took that as a sign that I should leave them alone. I’m sorry to my English-speaking subs. You can try to dump this one into Google Translate, but I can’t promise you’ll be happy with the result.
E o dimineață cenușie de 1 aprilie,
Primăvara și-a uitat culorile acasă.
Poate s-a gândit c-ar fi o glumă bună.Ai observat vreodată
Că vremea se pricepe să suspende timpul?
Limbile ceasului se clintesc anemic,
Parcă ar lua-o înapoi.În zilele gri, viața pare un film mut.
Îl urmărim cum se scurge pe geam,
Cadru cu cadru, picătură cu picătură,
Tăcuți, în bulele noastre de ciment.De s-ar aprinde o rază undeva pe trotuar,
Ne-am îngrămădi toți să prindem loc în față.
Dar nu — azi stăm cuminți,
Suspendați în timp,
Pândind revenirea primăverii
În prim plan.