hunters and hunted

when I started to write the book,

I was not sure I will manage to move from

its first page.

when I was successfully passing to the next one,

its white was so hypnotic, that stoned me for hours.

some sheets did same to me for some good years.

but my thoughts weren’t patient.

seeds don’t wait such long time to come up

and meet the sun.

they need to spread.

I once set with a friend for a beer,

on a green garden terrace in the middle

of old Bucharest.

we were enjoying our kind of conversation.

she asked me did you read Hemingway and I said no.

she said you should and after, I did.

she said you remind me of Hemingway and I didn’t ask why.

later some guy came and we talked about

the painting art, rroma people

and what we did

and are still doing to them.

I am not sure if same time or with other occasion,

she confessed to me that she started hate artists.

poets, painters, sculptures, writers.

she was madly upset because of not knowing

how to make a way through their jungle.

because, dears, there is a jungle there!

if you don’t pay attention, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

like poverty and famine, like death.

if you didn’t yet meet, beware, they’re watching

each of your steps!

later after the trip,

I started to think of her words

and my thoughts started to ask themselves

if that would suit me.

to go or not to into that jungle?

this was the question.

and answer came after some long years,

after I realized it’s only a matter of changing jungles.

if you think you’re not a part of one,

in this very moment when you’re reading,

oh, let me tell you’re blind!

just open eyes, to see where you are right now!

so I did change the jungle and I became a writer.

as a writer I wrote my first book.

and now here we are: hunters and hunted.