Paula Lavric was born with a taste for literature on the language, on June 29, 1990. At the age of five - without having learned the alphabet - she was cursively reading Petre Ispirescu's fairy tales - a discovery that left her mother speechless. At first she felt drawn to essay writing, after which she began to write poetry, short prose, and, feeling more and more hungry for writing, her texts took on a new dimension. Spending a large part of his childhood at "grandmother across the ravine", he became attached to the simple world and the details, where he rustles through the woods, gathers willow buds for the goats, swims through all the ravines and prepares the delicious "poale-in -brău", which - along with a bottle of water just taken out of the well - are stuffed into a bag and taken to the workers in "Luncă".
Staying home can be as lonely as leaving or returning
You know the sound of every door, the secrecy of every room and every cupboard
finding salt behind the pepper jar and finding salt scattered under the pepper jar
no longer surprises you though you pretend
like kissing your partner
not to know if you’d ever meet again.
You keep coming back pretending to have missed them
when in reality you haven’t thought about them for a second
not even in the lunch break
not even when you saw that couple kissing and
tree branches almost touching the window.
You thought about something else
for your thoughts were travelling against the train’s route, against your body direction,
switching platforms in an attempt to delay the departure
or the arrival
to a conclusion.
Being anywhere is so unlikely
for anyone to meet a familiar face,
so comforting, contrary to what researchers may say.
Staying home is as lonely as leaving or returning.
A heavy body incapable of motion and too many things nonharmoniously revolving around,
things moving themselves, touching themselves, eating themselves like snakes mistaking themselves, things getting lost,
things getting dirty without anyone touching them,
things and excuses
not to go through the door.
For home is further and further away
sometimes when you never left it.
Statul acasă, la fel de solitar ca plecarea ori întoarcerea
cunoști vibrația fiecărei uși, secretul fiecărei camere și al fiecărui dulap
găsești borcanul cu sare în spatele celui cu piper
găsești sare vărsată sub borcanul cu piper
nu te mai surprinde deși te prefaci
îți săruți partenerul parcă neștiind dacă vă mai întâlniți vreodată
revii mereu pretinzând că ți-a fost dor
când de fapt nu te-ai gândit deloc
nici în pauza de masă
nici când ai văzut cuplul acela sărutându-se
ramuri de copaci atingând fereastra
te-ai gândit la altceva
căci gândurile tale călătoreau
împotriva mersului trenului, împotriva direcției corpului tău,
schimbând platforme, încercând să amâne plecarea ori sosirea
la o concluzie.
a fi oriunde înseamnă o probabilitate atât de mică să întâlnești o față familiară,
atât de reconfortant, contrar cercetărilor științifice
statul acasă, la fel de solitar ca plecarea ori întoarcerea
un corp greu, incapabil să producă mișcare,
în jurul căruia se rotește inarmonios o îmbulzeală de lucruri
lucruri care se mișcă singure, se ating, se mănâncă pe ele însele cum niște șerpi își confundă trupurile
lucruri care se pierd, lucruri care se murdăresc fără ca cineva să le atingă,
lucruri și scuze
pentru a nu trece pragul.
căci acasă este din ce în ce mai departe
uneori, fără să fi plecat.
Latest discussions and comments