The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this:

A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death.

Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.


—Pearl S. Buck—

February 10, 2010

August 17, 2008, 11:17 AM

m-am trezit rau iubire. constienta din prima secunda ca sunt singura. simt ca ma imbolnavesc dc nu ma atingi. au trecut 3 saptamani. incep sa inteleg drogatii, pur si simplu ti-e rau, nu te poti controla, n-ai cum scapa chinului. tre sa il traiesti de fiecare data, de la capat, iar si iar, pana la fericire.

e atat de liniste afara. niciun zgomot. decat racoare ascutita. e perfect sa ne iubim, sa ne auzim doar noi. cu geamurile larg deschise si draperiile trase, ascunzandu-ne de nori. ce altfel si ce bine ar fi. singurul lucru fain la dimineata asta. si tu ai fuma si io m-as topi in fierbinteala ta.

dimineata apasatoare...azi o sa fie greu.

te iubesc
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