Hopless, Oblivious People and Their Journals

Lăcrămioara Slădariu
Brushing my teeth, the daily routine, clothes patiently waiting, prepared the night before. Breakfast for the whole family, the "Mommy loves you" hug, and a kiss on the crown of the head-I jumped into the car and rushed to work. Routine weaves the tense thread of the day. I didn't attend the first two meetings. I forgot. The 40-year-old's fatigue. And I didn't go to the driving test either-I forgot. Like an incurable forgetful person, at the third meeting, I wrote it down in my journal, and Saint Peter performed my biopsy. It was malignant. Both the cancer and the forgetfulness.

Alex Caragian
He led a quiet life, at peace with himself and his neighbours, smiling at the sun in the morning and the moon on clear nights, until one day he realized he had forgotten to be born. That's when the unhappiness began-with birth. I've never seen a child born in bursts of laughter. Then he noticed that no one loved, and he tried to change that order. He loved to the left and to the right, and the world seemed renewed, but when it came to loving himself, he grew increasingly absent. And so, he became the man who forgot to love himself.
 
 Gheorghiță Mircea
Thursday. She doesn't recognize me. Even though I shaved my beard, I'm still just a stranger's face. She takes the bags, says thank you, greets me, and quickly closes the door. She refuses everyone. She speaks rarely; once, she told the nurse to keep quiet-that she doesn't need to talk, she's just a wooden cane to lean on. Thursday. She called me. She asked me when I'd stop by. When it happens that she suddenly snaps back and remembers, it's a rare but sure sign that the end is near. A final rebellion of the mind. Thursday. I have nothing to do today. Thursday. Nothing new. Thursday.

(Translated by Teodora Anghelachi / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)