Azi Barcelona a demonstrat că munca, ambiția, determinarea și concetrarea, au fost, sunt și vor fi întotdeauna ingredientele succesului. Nu aroganța, trufia și excesul. Și asta nu doar în fotbal. Modelul Barcelona se aplică în toate domeniile vieții.
Un 5-0 fără drept de apel, în zi de sărbătoare pentru catalani. Un 5-0 care dă o palmă aroganței și lipsei de respect a madrilenilor. Un 5-0 care demonstează că succesul nu este întâmplător, ci se obține printr-un efort constant și de lungă durată. În final un 5-0 care a arătat că diferența între învingători și mediocritate, este făcută de atitudine.
Al cinci-lea clasico consecutiv câștigat de Barcelona. Ceea ce spune mult despre filosofia pe termen lung a clubului. Despre încrederea pe care catalanii o oferă jucătorilor tineri și cu adevărat talentați, despre accentul pe care îl pun pe consisteță și despre faptul că promovează valorile adevărate, nu cele de carton.
Mă înlcin. Felicitări.
T'estimo Barça!
Pe curând
Moartea e ridicolă. Pur şi simplu.
Nu tu luminiţă la capătul tunelului. Nu tu muzică pe fundal. Nu tu rai. Nu tu epilog. Nu tu nimic. Nu-ţi trece viaţa prin faţa ochilor şi nici nu-ţi sunt iertate păcatele. Nu te aşteaptă Nichita Stănescu la o cafea şi nici Marilyn Monroe în costum de iepuraş.
Să fim înţeleşi, PUR! şi SIMPLU!
Deci nu "Mori şi...", nu "Mori pentru că...", Mori.
...şi atât. Linişte.
Max, dearest of all my friends.
I might have laughed, if I had remembered how.
Snow fell like ash from post-apocalyptic skies...
I don't know about angels, but it's fear that gives men wings.
It was colder than the devil's heart, raining ice pitchforks as if the heavens were ready to fall.
You'd find that Lady Luck was really a hooker, and you were fresh out of cash.
He was trying to buy more sand for his hour glass. I wasn't selling any.
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.
They were all dead. The final gunshot was an exclamation mark to everything that had led to this point. I released my finger from the trigger. And then it was all over. The storm seemed to lose its frenzy. The ragged clouds gave way to the stars above. A bit closer to Heaven.
The trick in my situation is that there was no trick, no matter what the movies tell you. No rules, no secret mantra, no road map. It wasn't about how smart or how good you were. It was chaos and luck, and anyone who thought different was a fool. All you could do was to hang on madly, as long and hard as you could.
Life knows two miseries; getting what you don't want and not getting what you want.
Everything had started out as black and white. Somewhere down the road, the line went blurry, the colors started to run, got smudged and gray.
There was a blind spot in my head, a bullet-shaped hole where the answers should be. Call it denial. I wanted to dig inside my skull and scrape out the pain.
Closing your eyes forces you to look at the darkness inside.
A fun-house is a linear sequence of scares. Take it or leave it is the only choice given. Makes you think about free will. Had our choices been made for us because of who we are?
The trouble with wanting something is the fear of losing it, or never getting it. The thought makes you weak.
The past is a gaping hole. You try to run from it, but the more you run, the deeper, more terrible it grows behind you, its edges yawning at your heels. Your only chance is to turn around and face it. But it's like looking down into the grave of your love, or kissing the mouth of a gun, a bullet trembling in its dark nest, ready to blow your head off.
Throw the rules out the window, odds are you'll go that way too.
All this time we got the fable of Sleeping Beauty wrong. The prince didn't kiss her to wake her up. No one who slept for a hundred years is likely to wake up. It was the other way round. He kisses her to wake himself up from the nightmare that has brought him there.
Death is inevitable. Our fear of it makes us play safe, blocks out emotion. It's a losing game. Without passion you are already dead.
There are no choices. Nothing but a straight line. The illusion comes afterwards, when you ask "Why me?" and "What if?". When you look back and see the branches, like a pruned bonsai tree, or forked lightning. If you had done something differently, it wouldn't be you, it would be someone else looking back, asking a different set of questions.
The past is a puzzle, like a broken mirror. As you piece it together, you cut yourself, your image keeps shifting. And you change with it. It could destroy you, drive you mad. It could set you free.
The things I want by Max Payne. A smoke. A whiskey. For the sun to shine. I want to sleep, to forget. To change the past. My wife and baby girl back. Unlimited ammo and a license to kills. Right then, more than anything, I wanted her.
There are things in life you cannot choose. How you feel.
Like always, the dead had all the answers I was missing. It wasn't that they weren't eager to talk; quite the contrary, the dead had plenty to say and once they started, they would never shut up. Their words would keep you awake at night.
When you're waking up, the world is a blur. What was clear in a dream, suddenly makes no sense. No surreal rescues. No easy, magic way out. But you are awake.
With no way to deal with the past, I kept my eyes on the road, off the rear-view mirror and the road-kill behind me.
Einstein was right, time is relative to the observer. When you're looking down the barrel of a gun, time slows down. Your whole life flashes by, heartbreak and scars. Stay with it, and you can live a lifetime in that split second.
This is love. When someone drags you from the wreckage when you have given in, ready to just lie there and die. This is love. When someone, no matter what the cost, shows you there is hope, a choice, that you can put down your gun. This is love. Love hurts.
When entertainment turns into a surreal reflection of your life, you're a lucky man if you can laugh at the joke. Luck and I weren't on speaking terms, or maybe the place was just too damn lame to be funny.
Your past has a way of sneaking up on you. You'll hear broken echoes of it everywhere, like a bad replay. You'll get mad at everyone for reminding you about it, even if it's all in your head.
You come to, amidst the wreckage of your own making. Do you stay there, eyes squeezed shut, afraid to move, hoping to bleed to death? Or do you crawl out, help your loved ones, make sure the fire doesn't spread, try to fix it?
In a nightmare, every choice you make is a wrong one. I would wake up at night, afraid that day was a dream I'd forget.
The world was getting too small for comfort.
Fraternizing with the enemy. I had stepped over the edge. The cartoon moment when the gravity waits for the coyote to realize his mistake before the plunge.
She was dead. The bullet in her head had come to the end of it's slow-motion journey.
I felt the rise of that old familiar feeling. I hated it. I welcomed it.
It was almost morning, waking up from the American Dream. We are willing to suffer, to die for the things we care about. For love, for the right choices, Because of her, I had solved the case. My case. All of it. Who I am. Is it worth it? Saying that it never is would be a lie. Sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes, something good comes out of it. Something you know you wouldn't deserve in a million years. Something that gives you a reason to go on.
I had a dream of my wife. She was dead. But it was all right.
Dilemă
My life has been a tapestry of failed romances and...almost romances.
Which makes me wonder which ones are better.