Nowadays it seems to me that most people are scared of relationships because they can't risk feeling better and then maybe feeling worse - instead, they prefer being... OK. OK sounds steady, predictable, safe. For us, the ones in our forties, all the baggage, the misfortunes, the suitcases filled with frustration, anger and mistrust, all that makes us full of drama, untouchable, secured by a self-built wall called solitude - the pleasure of being me for myself, blind to wrongdoings. Days ago I was told that I am named after a German little flower, pinkish, kindish, low-profile. For some reason it became the protagonist of a beautiful song soldiers sang to their ladies back home during the war - honestly, less beers would have helped me remember the very interesting details in between, but cheers to us, who only live once ;). My mother told me she named me after the main character of a novel she had once read; sadly enough, there are no memories left besides the name itself. Regardless of the origin, the whereabouts and geographical coordinates which have brought me to this world, that is exactly what I was supposed to be called. I needed a short, universal and practical name that could take my misplaced soul to epic worlds and their layered dresses, their veils, their secret dilemas and desires, their jewels and long braids, their princes, kings, duels and songs and odes to impossible, enchanted, promised and exultant love stories... their curses, their karma - coincidence or circunstance? All I know is my tale would go like this: Invited to the ball more than once, she knows the whole dance by heart - courteous smiles, bows, glances and vows... midnight has long passed as she walks by with both crystal shoes swinging in her fingertips - no footprints left behind. Another night turns to day, a new path opens up along the way - not ordinary, not necessary: real, way far from OK.
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