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  "-De unde ai atitudinea asta? De cand lipsa asta de incredere in tine? Stii ca tine de ceva vreme, nu ai mai creat nimic, lasi timpul sa iti toceasca penita, nu ai mai scris de mult timp! Cine e de vina?
  Ea lasa tigarea pe scrumiera, nu il privi in ochi. Nu se gandea decat la faptul ca el vedea ceva mai mult decat vroia ea sa recunoasca ca este! De ce o iubeste? De ce vede atata frumos in tot ce ea arunca de pamant? Cine a facut-o sa se simta mica din nou? Cum a putut sa fie atat de naiva sa creada in altcineva?
  -Te iubesc si ma doare ca te lasi prada unor sentimente ce nu te mai reprezinta! Stiu ca treci prin ceva greu, cu totii trecem prin ceva greu acum, dar trebuie sa iti revii, trebuie sa creezi, sa faci ceva sa iesi din starea asta!"

Dor Amar - 2014


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The last light

The last thing she said to him was a name, a name for the light.
She vanished into the darkness, leaving him alone in the last gasp of light.
There is no air in the other side, no time and no memory.
How can you search for yourself when you don't have a taste of your own irony!?

The presence he once felt was lost in the place of no name.
Where the light has no game.
No storm to clean up after he is gone.
Where the tears are for no one.


"As I am shaking under the idea of you loving me still, after all this time that we have been away from each other, I am trying to light up my cigarette and forget about you, like I did so many times.
I try to keep all the emotions away, but they are deep into my existence, in my blood, in my dreams and they define me as I am. My shadow of a person, small and unfulfilled, in pain and lost!"


It was dark and warm, not the feeling I once had, not the comfort I once imagined. It was more real than the books I read and praised, more in the moment that the moment itself. I was scared as I always was, but this time a part of me was brave and lived for that split of a second, for that moment of closing my eyes and letting him kiss me under the falling snowflakes.
    I knew then as I know now how wrong it was for me to do that, but it seemed like my imagination was something I could touch, and I had him.
   Looking back at that moment seems like looking in a book, reading a story about a girl that loved a boy that existed in her head, but the boy was real. The boy still exists, but the boy is different from what she thinks he is.
   Is it selfish to look at a person like that? Taking only the parts that you want a person to be?

Dor Amar 2014