luciabordeianu

I was sitting at my table,

the one from the corner,

where

half of it is in the shadow,

half is under

sun.

and I like it like this.

‘cause I can never decide

which side

I love or I need

more.

and anyway, I can move from this seat

on the opposite,

whenever

I feel I want.

…

sometimes I don’t switch.

I keep my ass on the one which offers

the best view,

a combination between those old city buildings,

crowded narrow streets,

filled with chairs

and tables

and people

eating together, drinking or walking up and down

to find a place

to stop

to eat

and drink.

some of them, a lot, are tourists.

here, at pub, majority are locals.

I can say by their faces.

is like…

they don’t give a fuck,

is like they don’t care where they are,

what they eat

or drink.

but, in fact, I think they do.

above this black and white picture,

whenever I raise my eyes a little more,

I hit the green hill that they call a

mountain.

then I remember I met some mountains in my life.

I climbed on top of some,

few times I crossed the other side,

but it took me 16 years to go on top

of this one.

…

so, I was sitting at my table,

sipping my usual unflitered beer

from an oval stemmed glass

(the one and only place on earth where I drink beer from a glass),

scrolling my old android mobile phone,

hunting the online international agencies news or

those funny, sarcastic deep meaning posts of

my few social media friends.

…

so I was lazy there,

lighting from time to time

a cigare.

the summer sun was exploding into my face,

squeezing my eyelids,

forcing me to put on my prada

second hand sunglasses.

a jazz sound was playing inside,

behind the wooden bar and

every surrounding table

was full with groups chating, laughing loudly.

one woman had a laptop in front of her.

she was talking with her friend

while typing something important,

I supose.

next to me was a group of three,

not older than 35.

their words were torn from

dictionary files.

they were dressed for some mountain trip.

boots, shorts and all that shit you need

to go away and come back one piece.

all summer long,

several suns touched their skins on those hights,

turning them into a roasted surface.

…

maybe I’m kinda hungry.

…

I enjoy people telling stories about mountains and

their climbing on rocks,

difficult routes, tents and night fires under

the lighted sky.

delicious are the adventures

with savage animals.

…

so I was sitting at my table, not hunting news

or scrolling on

social media anymore,

all my ears for them.

I even put my sunglasses on,

becoming a sort of Colombo

in disguise.

I think they painted a smile on my face,

for few times, but then,

suddenly,

started a talk about…

books.

writers.

again some other books,

some other writers.

theories, concepts, the art of exposing,

philosophers,

a line that unites ancient with present,

a line that cross from east to west,

oriental culture rising upon occidental,

african poets,

the scandinavian influence,

the south american vibration.

I

am

lost!

I became so small that I can crawl under

my

table.

I’m so insignificant now

that nobody here

can see

me.

(not even sure they’ve noticed me before).

I am stuck in this

world wide biblioteque

where all those writers,

boys and girls,

let their written words

to dry on sheets of paper,

papyrus

under a millennial solar ray.

…

then my mind jumped on a dusty street,

there, in my grandpa village.

burned by a deadly summer sun,

tabacco leaves were drying silently,

hanging on fances.

I used to steal a leaf,

chew it,

swallow that bitter stinging saliva and then

spit it out

at my feet,

in the dust.

…

so,

maybe…

these three were used to chew books pages,

swallow the sweet bitter saliva

and spit out words

on the concrete streets,

as they were doing now,

this reminded me I still have

my cigares.

…

so I was sitting at my table,

smoking,

sending circles into the dusk,

thinking there is nothing to worry about.

the hill was still there, standing in front of me,

yet not a mountain.

I was sitting at its feet,

yet not a writer.

…

so this is why I should go back on social media

and mark myself safe

to all of you.

because there is nothing out there

or inside here

that we should worry about.