I did it my way

And now, the end is near;
And so I face the final curtain.
My friend, Ill say it clear,
Ill state my case, of which Im certain.

Ive lived a life thats full.
Ive traveled each and evry highway;
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Regrets, Ive had a few;
But then again, too few to mention.
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption.

I planned each charted course;
Each careful step along the byway,
But more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Yes, there were times, Im sure you knew
When I bit off more than I could chew.
But through it all, when there was doubt,
I ate it up and spit it out.
I faced it all and I stood tall;
And did it my way.

Ive loved, Ive laughed and cried.
Ive had my fill; my share of losing.
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.

To think I did all that;
And may I say – not in a shy way,
No, oh no not me,
I did it my way.

For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught.
To say the things he truly feels;
And not the words of one who kneels.
The record shows I took the blows -
And did it my way!

[next level><time to leave]

it’s time to move to the next level, to understand our good intentions, to hear the sound of the world. it’s time to realize where we are, to list our own expectations and start acting toward any kind of attainment. [...] i would like to be a moon walker. i would like to see the ground under my old new shoes, to feel the rocks and the air of this possible new level. it will be a change i will never forget, but a change of vibration. i never try to reach it, because it’s spontaneous, ambiguous and uncertain. it’s like expecting yourself to be somewhere, but not doing something efficient to get there, because you know everybody does it. it’s like regretting and hating the fact you are not able to foresee what’s the next step you will do. but i guess i’ m too inside myself. until the walk on the moon, i’ m just a streetwalker. i’ m heading to a destination which might not be the same at the end of the walk. i myself won’t be the same, but what will surely remain unchanged will be the souls. and my soul. why? because it’s made in romania. [ no spiritual explanation is needed].

every next level of our existence is in fact a breakthrough, a way out of a new glass pot. you know it’s gonna’ be difficult, but it’s your choice to move up or down the road. you’re running to the corner, because you woke up and realized you are not at the same level, you hope to see someone else, then you take a picture of where you want to arrive and start asking the people around you if they ever got there. they tell you that you have to walk a day, a month and a year to reach that part of land, but you don’t stop running and you say “i’ m one of those that cannot be moved”. later, you have moments of rumination, just to think about the things the other people told you. yes, they were right, but their next level is what they created for themselves, is what they meant to see, to feel, to be asked of.[...]

when you pass the corner, with the picture in your hand, you become more confident that your destination is close, but ask yourself how “lengthy” is this ” close”. then, you walk further, you run further and hope further.[it's time to leave]. your existence is made of several next levels…

fizz of minds

it rains. and whenever it rains things  seem to be much deeper. in an attempt to find my  spirit, to  seek  for the real “myself”, i understand the voice of the rain.i remember people[...]they often ask themselves  about future, about life and friends in general…they ask about  salaries and new gadgets. what  they rarely ask is about themselves[...]do we really  know who we are?do we really realize what  path we already started to walk on? there is surely  much to  discover about us. much to search and to improve. much  to reach  and to be happy of. for instance, our attempt has a long way do develop itself, a way  with  no  real results, at the end of which there comes another question:is that  what  we wanted and struggled for?

what  remains to be done is the  [re]-invention  of creativity. this-started to  manipulate(in a positive way) all the  things   we like  to  call”existence”. it  is there and here. abstract  and real in the same time. it comes from nowhere, apparently from nothing…creativity  is a mean of existence which  can make us aware of our strengths, our forces to bring the change we  need in our lives, our world…where do  we find creativity? simple  to answer. on the street. in the white stripes from the middle of it, into people walking on this street, into atmosphere.[...] it is everywhere. and if you still try to  demonstrate this to  yourself, raise another question: am i creative? am i  enough  creative to change something around me?

think about this. because  you-and the word-are in your own hands [>and the pure simple truth is rarely  pure, and never simple<]

reflections of a skyline

And I want to play hide and seek, give you my clothes, tell you I love you shoes, sit on the steps when you take a bath, and massage your neck. And kiss your face, hold your hand, and go for a walk. Not mind when you eat my food, and meet you at Rudy’s and talk about the day. Talk about your day and laugh at your, your paranoia. I give you tapes you don’t even listen to, watch great films, watch terrible films. And tell you about the tv-program I saw the night before and not laugh at your jokes. I want you in the morning, but let you sleep for a while. Tell you how much I love your eyes, your lips, your hair, your neck. Sit on the steps, thinking, ’till your neighbours come home. Sit on the steps ’till you come home. Worry when you’re late, and be amazed when you’re early. I’d give you sunflowers and go to your party and dance. Be sorry when I’m worried and happy when you forgive me. Look at your photos and wish I’d known you forever. Hearing your voice in my ear, feel your skin on my skin, and get scared when you’re angry. I tell you you’re beautiful, hold you when you’re anxious, hold you when you’re hurt, want you when I smell you, offend you when I touch you and whimper when I’m next to you. Whimper when I’m not. Smother you in the night and get cold when you take the blanket and hot when you don’t. Melt when you smile, dissolve when you laugh. But not understand how you think I’m rejecting you when I’m not rejecting you, and wonder how you could ever think I’m rejecting you. And wonder who you are, but I accept you anyway. And tell you about the tree angel, the enchanted forest boy who flew across the whole ocean just because he loved you. I’d buy you presents you don’t want and take them away again. And ask you to marry me, and you say no again but I keep on asking because though you think I don’t mean it but I always have from the first time I asked you. I wander the city thinking. It’s empty without you but I want what you want and think. I’m losing myself. But I’ll tell you the worst of me but try to give you the best of me because you don’t deserve any less. Answer your questions when I’d rather not, tell you the truth when I really don’t want to, and try to be honest because I know you prefer it. And think it’s all over, but hang on for just ten more minutes before you throw me out of your life. Forget who I am and let me try and get closer to you. And somehow, somehow communicate some of the overwhelming, undying, overpowering, unconditional, all-encompassing, mind-expanding, ongoing, never-ending love I have for you.

les petites plaisirs de notre existence-sharing rocks

…once upon a time, a man found a rock. he did not realized how important was that rock for him until one day, when he got out with it in his pocket. all his friends were astonished. they had never seen such a special possession. it was seemingly clear that the man was reach, but he did not admit being so. he decided to take advantage of the fact of having an unique rock: he learned to protect it, to keep it safe in a secret place, and even tried to sing for it.

now, the man is old enough to share the rock with those around him…

i have now decided to share my rocks with you…the one that keeps telling me “you’re funny, but not enough to make me laugh”, the one that “googles” for nothing, the one that stands in front of the mirror, drowning his sorrow in the depth of the image he sees. i have to tell you today you’re beautiful, i love you, and i respect you; i hate you , and i envy you for what you did for others.

this is THE BOOK. and you are allowed to listen my story, to participate in the writing of it.~~enjoy~~