Hopless, Oblivious People and Their Journals

Monica Bologa
I am tired. I sit down on a bench near a building to catch my breath. I no longer know where to go. I feel lost and sad. On the third floor, a window opens. A very upset man throws out a notebook, which lands in the grass. I pick it up and start reading it. I learn that the man is alone and has a problem: he forgets things, people, events. And because he feels completely lost, he wants to end his life. I go up to the third floor and ring the doorbell. Hello, I'm here. Who are you? What? You've forgotten? I'm Andreea. You invited me to dinner.

Magdalena Daminescu
After he left, I found his journal. I was surprised he hadn't locked it, but lately, he had been spending hours writing in it without hiding anymore. He had almost stopped talking. When he let go of the journal, I could see the fear in his eyes, and I felt sorry for pulling him out of his world. How could he forget about me? I was jealous of his freedom. I couldn't resist. I started reading, skipping lines that became increasingly less legible and harder to understand. The letters turned into dots, and then a continuous line stretched across the last page.
 
 Titela Durnea
Monday. Otilia brought me here. It's nice. Quiet, green, pleasant people, my age. Tuesday. I played chess. I was happy when it ended 6:6. I like numbers. Wednesday. They made me draw flowers. I smiled when I saw how the cat turned out. Thursday. A lady came to visit. She left. I thanked her, out of politeness. Friday. It's ugly here. The children don't play with me. They laugh at the stain on my pants. Saturday. They washed me. From the mirror, an old man asks me: Who are you? Sunday. Day of rest. Sunday. Sunday. Sun.

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