I love

I love a lot of things and a lot of people.

Things at which I do not have constantly access and persons that sometimes I do not even know their name, but I love them all because they belong to my dimension and we get along, they match with my world. They are vibrating the same rhythm and they are breathing the same air that I do. We are part of the same world, we try to leave the past in the past where it belongs, for letting the future clean, unspoiled and unwritten, being full of a multitude of infinite possibilities untouched by patterns of behavior. We are transformable and continuously into an endless evolving process. We are as alive as God created us to be, and we enjoy the life no matter what life is offering to us, because that is why we are born for.

I love the fresh smell of the earth after rain, the colorful balloons, the fireworks, the scented candles, the children, the coffee served in fine china, the puffy clouds on the blue clear sky, the sour cherry preserves laid down in crystal small plates, the cruel green grass, the smell of the clean linen just washed, the full moon reflected in the sea.

I love my parents because they gave me life and because despite the fact that I am totally different from them and they never completely understood me, they always loved me interest free and they let me be me. I love them because they taught me everything they know and they made efforts that should be acknowledged for developing my potential. My father always stood by me in a very discreet way, being a constantly and invisible support, he taught me a lot of sports teaching me practically to trust myself and to believe that I can learn anything. From my mum I learned that it is ok to be proud of myself and to follow my own road no matter what others might believe. But what I love the most at them is the simple way in which they understood to make a couple, they who are so different one from another they have always been so united, so close one to another that I never succeeded to manipulate them. No matter how many efforts I made I could not find a break into their wall.

I love the city in which I have been born and where I live despite its misery. I love it because it is hiding me inside of its intestines, making me feel protected due to the immensity of possibilities that it is offering to me. I love the area between Romana Square and Victoriei Square, where in childhood I spend away from my family a few weeks in a villa belonging to a far aunt. An aunt quite wealthy, with a so called blue blood and mixed genes of Macedonians and Jews, who was carrying me after her in visits to other rich oldies and where I learned that a good coffee is served in Rosenthal china, the sour cherry sweet preserves is served in Bohemian crystal small plates, the glass with ice cold water is compulsory served on a silver platter with an milieu under, all these served in a living stile Biedermeier. Our desuetude images like depicted from a black white old movie were reflected in the Murrano glass mirrors, being in the same time watched by the oil painted figures out of the dusted frames, which vaguely were distinguished themselves from the 1977 earthquake fissured walls.

I still have clearly in mind that at the edge of the golden ear-rings blacken by the time it was swinging a lazy beam of topaz or sapphire, and the gloves ... were waiting ... and quiet into the lobby at the entrance on the wall small table (with long and delicate legs like the ones of a dear) for taking back the initial shape. I still know the taste of the first ice cream I served on the boulevard at the luxury restaurant from the ground of a 5 stars hotel, taste that to my surprise I could rediscover only at Ciragan Palace Kempinski Hotel on the shore of the Bosfore.

But all of these cannot be compared with the noise existing in the one bedroom apartment from the Pantelimon district, full of humidity, close to the school where I made my first four grades. From the 9th floor I was watching how my brother is throwing with tomatoes in the people passing by, and from the same floor together we were screaming at the clouds that were running tempestuous towards us announcing the August rains. From that balcony, while I was having my sport classes, my mum was my special cheer leader for the my athletics, and from the same balcony for spearing me to come up all those floors, she was catapulting me down the best sandwiches with butter and cheese I ever eat. There I spent my childhood playing with the girls “mum and dad”, pulling throw the dust the poor dolls pretending that we make them a bath and we were feeding them with small stones pretending they are potatoes. There I destroyed the skin of my knees climbing the high fences better than any other boy willing to impress my older brother. There I fall in love with the smell of boiled vegetables who were announcing a chicken soup than only my mom is able to make. There at the ninth floor I learned that tasting a chicken soup is equivalent with tasting the concept of “being mother”, of “mom” no matter the quality of the china in which the soup is served.

I love my son. Choosing to keep him was the best and the most important choice I ever made with my life, but loving him was not an option. I just love him. Without any explanation and without any logic. He is a wonderful human being and just like me he is not alike anyone else, he is just Luca, and his simple gesture of tenderness throws me on unexpected realms of joy. The moments from Saturday afternoon when I am trying to put him asleep while he’s playing with my hair and half asleep he is saying: “Mom, don’t you move. I built a castle from your hair and I hide my fingers inside.” He shakes my inner world to tears. And I would like to turn suddenly to kiss him violently and to hug him tight, but I am not doing it because otherwise I would destroy the castle.

The love, if we should believe the Greeks, has many shapes: eros, philia, agape and storge (and a few more), meaning lust, fleshy love, friendship, respect, pragmatic love, ideal love, uninterested love, parental love etc.

I am not able to define how I love. I love and this is it. In all the ways and in none. Just like this. My love seems to me so simple and so hard to explain to someone like I would ask to a philosopher to explain the significance of a scratch on a wall, where it is written with huge letters

ROXANA LOVES

How can someone explain something like this?

How can I explain why I like the clouds?

Or why do I die of pleasure when my son builds castled out of my hair, or when I feel the smell of soup? It is the same. It is exactly the same. ... On the other hand I cannot pretend the clouds to love me back, nor to the soup ... Although think about the magic of moment when you realize that those rusty leafs you walk upon in the park alley while going at work, think that you love them because they are like giggling your feet, they love you back. I do not love for being loved back, but when this happened I live some out of this world experiences.

I found everything so familiar about the things/people I love and in the same time so enigmatic like all the above mentioned: my family, my city, my son, the sun set … all of these are so known by me, but even so they still surprise me. It is so sure that the sun goes down every evening but every time it does it differently. I love like I am supposed to love them and different in the same time. They are not taking into my head the shape of a father figure, of a child, of the sun, or of a home. They are what they are and they are not what they aren’t and I cannot understand how they get into my dimension, on my frequency. They let me no choice but to love them. They are on my level after all, isn’t it?

I cannot explain this, but for me it is like this. The water freezes at zero degrees and boils at 100. But I do not know why.

I love.