My childhood was troubled. As a kid, I
had to learn lessons of adjustment and survival that no child should ever learn…
My fight for life started in my mother’s womb. I was born premature, with a complex heart malformation. At that time, the doctors gave me zero chances of
survival. Therefore, they suggested that my mother should leave me there, in
the hospital… Even though I was supposed to die, even though I was tiny and fragile,
black and ugly, like a baby crow, as my mom would say, her love was so strong
that I actually made it. Her love and care for me was the most miraculous
remedy.
However, it’s not about my first day on Earth
that I wanted to talk to you about, but I keep getting lost in my own thoughts…
Back to the story, not only did I survive longer than expected, but I actually lived long
enough to see my mother part with this world. I was only 12 when I got deprived
of her immense love. Long empty years followed. I couldn’t understand why I had
not died at birth, why I had to live through so much pain. I tried to
understand what my purpose was. I couldn’t help wondering “Why me?” Those
years were full of unanswered questions. They were long years of soul-searching,
where I hoped that someday I would love and be loved back again.
I was 20 and I was full of dreams and
hopes. I was a 1st year student at Hyperion – The Faculty of Film,
Theater, and Television. I got in at the top of the list, but it did not really
matter that much because I had failed the entrance exam at the Painting
Class of the National Academy of Fine Arts and that hurt a lot. Back then, I was working in television (Canal 38). I was a scenographer and I was happy I was
making enough money to pay for my studies. My passion for painting kept burning
me out though. I was missing my colleagues at the High-School of Fine Arts,
so quite often I would drop by National Academy to see them.
It was a sunny day that late fall. I was extremely tired and at the same
time happy because, even though I was only a scenographer, I managed to do some
TV documentaries for the winter holidays. During the day, I would go to classes
and to work (shows and shootings), and at night I would stay up late on the set,
polishing the shooting we did during the day. I was really exhausted because of
the heavy schedule. I would often fall asleep during classes. On the one hand,
I was happy with my choices – I felt that I was outdoing myself. I often had
the feeling I was some kind of star, although no one knew how much I cried
whenever I was by myself and how much I was hoping to continue my painting
studies at the Academy.
The first day was that very beautiful day in the fall. I felt like dropping by my former colleagues. I was missing the smell of oil colors. In a jolly careless spirit, I entered the studio where I knew I’d find my friend Ema. The studio was bathing in the warm light of the afternoon, looking splendid with its neat agglomeration of easels. Almost all of my colleagues had already left for classes, all except Ema and, somewhere, behind a distant easel, the Sun himself. He was slim and tall, slightly arrogant, and quite lost in his thoughts. He was wearing ankle-boots, black jeans, and a purple sweater. Long sandlike golden curls were flooding his shoulders, down to his back. His eyes were green like the sea and he smelled like holiday. He didn’t seem to notice me, which made feel uncomfortable. I found that weird… because I knew him, but he didn’t give a damn…
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