The first story

... And I miss you. I really miss you. And I don't care what you say, and I am not in the mood to listen, nor to leave or to kiss you. I just miss you and I don't care what you say about this.

You ask me to explain that. But I do not know: how to explain?

Okay, look. I am trying to explain...

I miss you ... Sometimes it hurts. It is the purest pain, the pain of
helplessness. I have it into me. And I feel that a flotation
clouds tangles my legs. And I can not run at all.

To run, to fly? I want desperately to see you. I want to get now
the first car, the last train, or the most stupid plane and to go to see you. Or to get something that does not yet exist. But definitely you will invent for me just for going to see you. ...Suspended airports which does not have to be decided where to be.

Unusual way to feel longing, you say.

I Know .

… sometimes I even dream 'the run - self'. The pain of helplessness is like the run in the dream, you know ... A dream where you run alone, laugh alone, dance alone. In fact you just sleep. And you can not run at all. You can not, but you just try and try. I think that must feel angels whenever they feel clipped wings.

But, Madame, let's leave this now, you say, you insist. And tell me
once!

Well ... if you insist. I try to explain, look.

Do you remember the statue from the [...]? Of course I've already told you the story. About the Angel-father who tries, from hundred years, who cares, to cut the wings of the Angel-son? The son who has not any envy to wait, to ask permission or to obtain 'the flight licence'? I didn't tell you the story yet?

… And I did not tell you the story about that impromptu, that melody like a rain? That we listen so many times? With you. Radu Lupu, of course. My favorite piano player. With you. Or Murray Perahia, why not, and Shubert. I like more that anything the rain falling, the rain flow, out of the time ...

But if I have to say it again, I say it again, ok. Of course we were beyond the mirror, I don't understand why do you wonder so much? We have been never in front of the mirror. Or we are “in between”? A strange mood, right?

(written in 2001? Maybe...)