For the english version, please, scroll down. Este sunetul sinistru al strigatului in gol, al cuvintelor care pornesc disperate intr-o directie si se spulbera de un zid nevazut, care nu face decat ca creasca dimensiunea singuratatii. Inimile frante au un ecou specific nebuniei, fricii, abandonului si mortii iminente.
Am descoperit asta prin muzica. Sistemul meu era parca programat din inconstient sa simta o atractie arbitrara pentru o anumita insiruire de sunete. Abia la o a doua, a treia, sau a patra ascultare, cand savurasem deja linia melodica si avem rabdarea sa ascult atent versurile, imi dadeam seama ca acestea vorbesc despre singuratate, pierdere, disperarea in fata golului lasat de iubiri neimpartasite. Nu este vorba de iubirile care lasa in urma amintiri frumoase, dar care s-au terminat pentru ca asa le-a fost scris. Inimile acelea nu se pierd, ele doar se transforma, ingloband experienta prin care au trecut si asimiland-o in timp.
Nu, eu vorbesc despre inimile care raman mutilate, care isi pierd reperele, care sunt intr-o cadere libera pentru ca nu mai stiu unde este sus si unde jos, care intra in latenta si continua sa existe asa, pana la final.
Sunt inimile care sunt sfaramate fara avertisment, precum o lovitura de sabie miseleasca pe campul de lupta. De multe ori nu e timp sa inteleaga de ce si de unde si, in caderea libera, luptatorul nu poate decat sa mimeze o uimire infricosatoare, pana cand se prabuseste in praf.
Inimile frante au un sunet specific: de inecare in abis.
Inca ma intreb cum de unele se recupereaza.
Am descoperit asta prin muzica. Sistemul meu era parca programat din inconstient sa simta o atractie arbitrara pentru o anumita insiruire de sunete. Abia la o a doua, a treia, sau a patra ascultare, cand savurasem deja linia melodica si avem rabdarea sa ascult atent versurile, imi dadeam seama ca acestea vorbesc despre singuratate, pierdere, disperarea in fata golului lasat de iubiri neimpartasite. Nu este vorba de iubirile care lasa in urma amintiri frumoase, dar care s-au terminat pentru ca asa le-a fost scris. Inimile acelea nu se pierd, ele doar se transforma, ingloband experienta prin care au trecut si asimiland-o in timp.
Nu, eu vorbesc despre inimile care raman mutilate, care isi pierd reperele, care sunt intr-o cadere libera pentru ca nu mai stiu unde este sus si unde jos, care intra in latenta si continua sa existe asa, pana la final.
Sunt inimile care sunt sfaramate fara avertisment, precum o lovitura de sabie miseleasca pe campul de lupta. De multe ori nu e timp sa inteleaga de ce si de unde si, in caderea libera, luptatorul nu poate decat sa mimeze o uimire infricosatoare, pana cand se prabuseste in praf.
Inimile frante au un sunet specific: de inecare in abis.
Inca ma intreb cum de unele se recupereaza.
Broken hearts have their own sound. It’s the creepy sound of screaming in an empty space, of words running desperately into one direction just to end up hitting an invisible wall that does nothing but amplify the dimension of loneliness. Broken hearts have an echo of madness, fear, abandonment and imminent death.
I discovered this by listening to music. My system was programmed to feel pleasure when listening to a certain “arrangement” of musical sounds. It was only when I got to listen to the songs for the third or fourth time, when I had already satisfied my pleasure of listening to the sound and had the patience to listen to the words, that I noticed they were all about loss of love and desperation in front of the loneliness. It wasn’t the kind of songs that sing the love beautiful and sweet. Those hearts don’t lose themselves, they go through a process of transformation, assimilating their experience in time.
No, I’m talking of the hearts that remain mutilated, the hearts that lose their marks, that are on a free fall because they don’t know anymore what’s up and what’s down, hearts that enter a dormant state and continue to exist like that until the end.
It’s the hearts broken without warning, like a cowardly sword strike on the battlefield. Most of the times, the fighter has no time to ask himself where from and why and, in his free falling, he can only mime a scary amazed figure, until he touches the dust.
Broken hearts have their own sound: of drowning into the abyss.
I still wonder how some of them manage to rise again.
I discovered this by listening to music. My system was programmed to feel pleasure when listening to a certain “arrangement” of musical sounds. It was only when I got to listen to the songs for the third or fourth time, when I had already satisfied my pleasure of listening to the sound and had the patience to listen to the words, that I noticed they were all about loss of love and desperation in front of the loneliness. It wasn’t the kind of songs that sing the love beautiful and sweet. Those hearts don’t lose themselves, they go through a process of transformation, assimilating their experience in time.
No, I’m talking of the hearts that remain mutilated, the hearts that lose their marks, that are on a free fall because they don’t know anymore what’s up and what’s down, hearts that enter a dormant state and continue to exist like that until the end.
It’s the hearts broken without warning, like a cowardly sword strike on the battlefield. Most of the times, the fighter has no time to ask himself where from and why and, in his free falling, he can only mime a scary amazed figure, until he touches the dust.
Broken hearts have their own sound: of drowning into the abyss.
I still wonder how some of them manage to rise again.
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