Separation. Anxiety.

The darkness used to harbour hungry wolves and slithering snakes. Dancing shadows were evil spirits, waiting for the camp fire to burn out so they could approach and consume our flesh. We used to whisper prayers into the night to soothe and appease. We used to greet the rising sun as our saviour, delivering us from that of which we knew so little.

Now we know more.

The vague buzz of neon lights has replaced the crackle of burning wood, while shadows dance on concrete walls to the tune of nearby traffic. A rat scurrying on the sidewalk might trigger a rush of adrenaline, but for the most part we’re safe. Yet the darkness is still there, even in our double locked and well lit houses.

It’s there when we turn off the lights and close our eyes. An emptiness, yearning to be filled.

It used to be wild animals and demons that rushed to fill it, but now we’ve grown.

Now it’s something so much worse.



I stand atop this massive, multi-dimensional structure which I’ve built over my few years. Ideas, facts, experiences and all their intertwining connections. A mere fraction of what is and what can be known, yet, still, of such immense intricacy that I can never seize it in its entirety. Each one of its nodes is tied to all the others, and each one casts a shadow. Minute variations in perspective translate to myriads of new facets, only made visible by the obscuration of myriads others.

I find myself racing around and within my mind in this synaptic carousel, constantly accelerating, striving for completion. But as the speed of this perceptual ride increases, the features of the structure begin to fade. Definitions loosen and equality signs begin to waver into approximations. Timelines begin to vibrate as events aggregate and memories coalesce. The once finely detailed labyrinth, seemingly set in stone, becomes fluid.

I am standing still, immersed in uniform chaos. For a single moment I experience everything.

But the chaos won’t have me. I find myself forcefully propelled outwards, past a limit I’ve only just become aware of.

I am thrown out of the entropic ocean. For a single moment I experience nothing.

I find myself drifting away from this amorphous fluid mass, constantly decelerating. As I slow down, I can see its limits more clearly.

I stop moving, and for a single moment I witness perfection. A drop of water.

I define its center and I draw a radius around it. I seek a reason for its shape and give it a past and a future. I split it into ever smaller parts to understand it, held together only by the causal strings I tie them with, weaved into a growingly complex tapestry. I keep each node perfectly still, so that I may add more and more layers undisturbed.

Water turns to cloth, cloth turns to stone and I stand once more on solid ground.

I have recreated the Universe more times than I can count.

Autumn Leaves

“It’s the leaves.”, she sighed.

“Hmm…?”, I mumbled, my curiosity slightly piqued.

“It’s…Well…Their colours are so beautiful this fall, aren’t they?”, she stumbled.

I turned towards her and noticed she had crossed her arms. She was gazing out the window, leaning on the IKEA table we bought 4 years ago, when we moved in together. She lowered her gaze into the ground and briefly moved her hand through her hair, before she turned towards me. She was fidgeting.

“Yeah, they look nice. I was thinking we could go out later and maybe take some pictures in the park.”, I replied.

She smiled. Such a sad smile. Her eyes then fixated the window again.

“Yes…So beautiful. Even more if you consider they’re dying, just about to fall off.”, she said, her voice trailing off.

“They’ll grow back in the spring, it’s life and nature. Seasons and cycles.”, I quipped.

“Seasons…Yes, seasons change. So do people.”, she said, in a dark voice.

By now her eyes were tearing up. She looked straight at me, but she didn’t seem comfortable doing that. I felt a sudden emptiness inside me, a sense of inescapable dread.

“The beauty of the autumn leaves…It’s not just the colors, it’s also their imminent demise. They remind us that all good things come to an end.”, she continued, her voice becoming clearer and more resolute.

“I…I don’t…”, I tried to say something, but couldn’t find my breath.

“They’re not meant to be together forever. The leaves…The leaves have to fall from the trees, don’t you see?”, she nearly screamed.

“Autumn, are you…”, I barely voiced, feeling dizzy.

I paused for a moment, took a deep breath.

“Are you leafing me?”


Innocence has to die.

The assault usually begins during the later stages of physical growth. Love, hate and curiosity are common motives. The murder weapons are often fluid. Mind and spirit will not grow otherwise. How could you claim mastery over something you’ve never seen or felt?

We are as innocent as unknowing. Every new synapse in a child’s brain is a step towards the realisation of guilt. It’s a sad state of affairs when that realisation comes too soon. It’s tragic when it comes too late, or never at all.

The world’s biggest tragedies have been orchestrated by innocent men. Afraid of sin, they ran back to their birthplace and childhood days. Back to simpler times and simpler words. When they could hide behind their mother’s skirt or surround themselves with their toys if the other kids were mean to them. History has shown us a few times how skirts and toys turned into flags and weapons.

This fear of sin can be taught because it resonates with a more basic reaction rooted deep in our psyche: the awakening of the senses when something new enters our perceptive field. That moment of pure awareness before fight, flight or observation. In a natural state there is no sin, only novelty and the excitement it brings.

But under supervision, that surge of energy can be moulded in the image of the self-appointed superior. Rules and borders are drawn. You are innocent within, guilty if you leave and your heart starts pounding whenever you get too close to the edge. The young and the weak are thus tricked into the safety of prisons. A rapid pulse is the compass that points to freedom.

But there’s more to it than crossing the border and becoming a fugitive. A runaway will always carry with him that which he has run away from. Guilt will follow and on the coldest days you will find yourself yearning for your lost innocence.

Rules have to be proven wrong, not just broken. Borders have to be erased, not just crossed.

Innocence has to die and guilt will die with it.

After all, only sinners can be forgiven.


I can hear the electrons flowing through the objects nearby.

The air that surrounds me being shaped by crystals.

Crystals made with light.

Intricate patterns everywhere.

Sines over sines.

They seem to radiate

from somewhere and sometime

into here and now.

Or is it the other way around?

Light made with crystals.

Crystals being shaped by the air that I surround.

And the objects nearby can hear the electrons flowing through me.



din cer

din pământ din

foc sfânt din

foaie din


din ploaie din

gând din

râul curgând

din soare trecând

tăcând și arzând

din apă

în cer

în pământ.

Wine Corks

I’ve been collecting wine corks for a while now.

I guess the idea got stuck in my mind after stumbling upon one too many life hacking listicles. Supposedly, one could use corks for all manners of household projects, far beyond their basic function. I love this kind of domestic transcendence.

But I hate it when ideas get stuck in my mind. They always seem to go stale in there. And because I’ve had quite a few of them wither within, I guess at some point I’ve decided  to start collecting wine corks.

I’ve since found that opening a bottle of wine can be almost as pleasurable an activity as emptying it.

A short struggle is overcome by a satisfying, punctuated release. The subtle glissando of liquid flowing into glass then follows in celebration. Some friendly words and a few clinks, perhaps.

A song is begun with the removal of that which blocks the flow. A great intro, sometimes the only redeeming quality of a musical piece.

Domestic is a foreign word for me lately.

My mind strays to different realms and I quite like it.

I’m still collecting wine corks.

But as always, I’m throwing out the empty bottles.