From time to time, I feel the impulse to expose thoughts and feelings about my life experiences. Many times, I take a piece of paper and a pencil and start writing one day, two, three, and then I stop.  I don't think I've been able to continue this charming profession of writer for more than seven days in a row. What's the use?  I wonder. I have the impression that every detail of my life, every experience would remain intact in my memory and I will always be able to bring them back. However, ...

       It's been years.  I have transformed and I am still transforming myself. I'm not the same anymore. Every period of my life, every feeling and emotion, joys or conflicts, my highs and lows, all were unique in my existence and contributed to my development as a girl, young woman, wife, mother, human being, but soon after they disappeared, they fled. They're so far away that I can barely perceive them. I often call them, I hope to recreate them, rebuild them, I replace them piece by piece, although to my surprise, those moments are no longer together, united, compact in my memory. And every time there is one "something else" that intervenes, as unique as before, it transforms me and then leaves. It walks away and walks further away, so I can hardly chase it. I'll call it by its name. I'm desperately trying to recreate it, rebuild it. I'm replacing it piece by piece. However, ...

       My past is so far away. My childhood, my adolescence, my youth, the threshold I had to cross at 35, which was like another prime, everything is far away. Then it was 40, 45, and soon it will be 50. I am in the middle of this rugged path called life, and here, I write again...

       What is life? What’s death like? Even from a very young age, there has never been a single day without having a certain thought regarding life, death. For me...

        Life looks like that beloved dessert of my childhood that was sold on every corner and was called sugar cotton candy. No matter how much you eat and enjoy, as soon as you put it in your mouth it melts at a strange speed, it becomes so small and insignificant that in the end you are left with only a subtle feeling of sweetness, an illusion, a chimera. For others...

      Life is an unanswered question. A flow, a river, a perpetual movement. A change. A process of becoming. Something we live in fear of, with the daily worry of not losing it and, curiously, when we lose it, we do not feel its absence. Life is a steep slope. You are happy when you climb up and reach the top, squeamish for its aspirations and pretensions, but when you find yourself on the ridge in no time, you see the descent and the end. Life is a reality, a tragedy or a comedy, but death?...

       We will die and see. Anyway, death is the last farewell. A definitive separation from everything you love, everything you have, everything you feel and everything you are. That's why death seems to me to be life's most convoluted moment.

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On the memory of Costica Puf

(1941-2019)

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