My grandmother was married by the communist party. Yes, don’t be surprised. Comrade Soare insisted: comrade Alexandru is a promising man, he knows the right direction for the world to go. Grandma wasn’t convinced, but the party insisted, it was her duty. They lived in a city where every street had a dark end. Women were not allowed to have silence between their legs. Only arms filled with zest. My father married my mother for the garden. For the apple trees, peach trees, cherry trees, for daffodils, roses, for the raspberry. Their minds colonized, the right to think abolished. The right to feel obscured. Politics of desire mystified. The wind had ears. But they were proud, they were tall, they looked the other way. They carried history in their teeth without laughter. I came along as an unfinished story. The debris of time filled my mother’s womb. It was never mine. They gave me the demand of truth: touch feels good. A living soul is necessary. Thinking is vital. Community is air. We need each other.
One day I knew, how it happens. My blood started flowing with cataclysmic power. This is not the time for Hollywood love stories, but honest touching. You spin my mind, and I keep dancing. I carry your body in my silences just for the sake of the world. I had to cry. Passion is terrifying. You suddenly don’t recognize the meaning of crossroads. The world gets swept away. I feel like shouting at the speed of the world decomposing. You make me laugh. What if love is a tyrant? There is emptiness hidden in the seed of desire. I had to learn from tears, from disembodied words. I have to learn again the meaning of freedom. Who knows what is this everything that matters?
