prima pagina

once upon a time I was myself

uncovered!  [Novocaine]

choose the author whose text you'd like to read:

#3 Alex. Sigartău, Ada Ionescu, Dan, Claire Machabert, Sorin-Mihai Grad

#2 Alex. Sigartău, Dan, Ada Ionescu, Alexandra Vatamanu

without music, life would be a mistake [Nietzsche]

#1 Sorin-Mihai Grad, Cristian Icleanu, Andrei Vădan

# about us / for authors

pentru autori


Although a Romanian cultural e-journal dedicated mostly to literature and philosophy, εγωφοβια [EgoPHobia] publishes English texts, too. Because there are only a few of them so far within our first three issues, we have copied them here in order to be easily findable by our English language readers. At the bottom of this page you cand find some info regarding εγωφοβια as well as instructions for authors.

Alex. Sigartău

black & white camera
                                  pour C.

let me desire the cravings
of the lost. in you, i will
shatter every word
... and silences unspoken.

i see you dressed in black,
in photographs, in your bed unmade,
with flowers all withered,
looking at someone else,
not me; and upon your
wet lips, moments not
caught by camera

reminding me of what
you know to hide so well.

i let the smoke fill me from within,
in the damp cold of this room
looking, shattered, at you,
as you never posed for me.

i let myself be caught in webs
thinking they were mine.
i find myself now, devoured
as no spiders ever could.
i must congratulate you: you are beautiful!

@ Alex. Sigartău


Ada Ionescu

Of Your Beauty

It was something I heard,
lost in between worlds,
that rang a sadness infinite
in my open arms.

It was a thing you said,
loosed in between smiles,
that wove a blank page
in my open eyes.

You speak silence amazing
literary guests. I do not know.
And I become once again
The child. Devil-like. Innocence
is in the heart of those who
do not desire. It.

I was nothing I am
Frost in above November
that wrote absence
in my open wound.

You say all we read is...
I do not know.
I end we read only
what we long to become.


Birds of never, birds of prey,
A cut so strange I could move in,
I cannot find my 25th hour
Raining over what we feel
   Birds of never.
And it blew away my thoughts,
And a promise to be,
Something more than this.
Cursed twilight garden.
   And I knew that you'll return
   For there was none I could
   bare. In the midst of new
black dawn.



in the shade

murder poems always keep the spiders

rats devour
and butterflies

there you go
you got yourself a date

the moth is awake

she has
never been late

caterpillar children always

let's fly around the

sneak upon
the grateful

overdose on
the withered

the jangled

and then rest
for a while

in the shade


in the shade

@ Dan


Claire Machabert


Leaden treasure in the body,
Reasonable heart and medusa.

Bitterness flows out in crimson tears,
The eye its bleeding melancholy gives away,
From a ramified serpent, blue
Wailing to the sobbing beat
Of its heart, spitting.

Fierce assassinating disillusions,
Gun, dagger, vicious rope;
Sadness drowns in its incandescent flow
The spirit: pool of blood.

The body survives or does not...
The spirit... does not

The mirror scrutinises with hatred,
Hatred for the I who stands before,
Body and soul,
Ego... Phobia -- Egophobia
Longing for decay, for self-destruction.

Loving -- comitting suicide
Love is suicide
I am here I-dea--.

@ Claire Machabert


Sorin-Mihai Grad

to Norbulator

Egophobia is just a word, like oasis, voodoo or esperanto. Nothing to fear of, except ourselves, but why should someone be afraid of him/herself? After all, whom to trust if not myself? Although anyone could assert something like basing his/her course on this, the lithe rowdy called fear is always somewhere nearby, too close to deny or avoid its deadenly flavoured iced torch. We are the stars of our dope show, but also the enemies, lords and labourers concomitantly, as well as its ghosts. By egophobia one understands usually "fear of the own ego", but there may be more beyond. What could be understood from these words? Lack of confidence? Too, but not only. There's also a fear of what we are aware of being able to do. You may be a quiet, peaceful creature, not harming even a mosquito or things that ask to be killed like it, but in a tough situation, when your life is endangered, would you not fight and even kill to survive? So aren't you afraid of yourself as a potential killer? Egophobia starts working, but not this is the egophobia I am actually talking about. My kind of egophobia is usually avoided because of what some call life, some existence, some vegetation, some don't even bother to think how should they call it. After all, life sucks, right? Yeah, it sucks our time, our energy, our dreams, our idea(l)s, our love and so on until we finally get rid of its dictatorship.

My egophobia could be defined as the fear of what I allowed myself become. Of course it was my life's dream to sit in front of my computer at 2AM on a Sunday morning, alone in this not quite filthy, but desperately missing some cleaning, room, writing nonsense in order to purge it somehow from my head, is there any unbeliever around? Unaware of this egophobia and letting myself carried away by the enemy mentioned above, let me call it simply "the enemy" seems a decent job. After all, there's pleasure, too, within this enemy, for examples ask any kind of priest, there's elation, there's sleep, there's illusion and adrenalin, but there's also egophobia and now I feel it. And I am still the same myself, even warned by this bitter revelation. This fear does not keep me from killing time or not writing what I would like to do sometimes. So is it really fear or just another kind of self-awareness I choose to ignore?

No answers, just some more uncertainity. Egophobia can be the fear of what one becomes, the lighter version of what was just said, but why write about it when we could sleep within a more general framework?

Egophobia may be taken also religiously. Considering ourselves a sum, or better, a fight between good and evil, egophobia could be assimilated to the struggle against the undesirable part. The religious aspect implies some sort of cowardness, usually presenting the evil in us as an influence not as a component. Thus religion denies egophobia? Wrong answer! Egophobia must be active in order to keep the believer awake when feeling attacked by lure. Imagine this side of egophobia defined for some future artificial brain. The definition I arrived at ain't anything but funny, therefore I am open to suggestions, even if this thing does not wear any trace of importance for me, it may prove to be useful at some later moment. Just think about, glory deriving from egophobia, doesn't it sound like a spring. It can arise also from the previous form of egophobia, but there are required some efforts and a considerable deal of awareness not always met anywhere.

Also our beloved "I hate myself" may fall under the spell of egophobia. Hate usually hides fear or reluctance. And here we are, back to our holy ground! From egophobia as positive factor, as it can eradicate laziness and bring everything if properly awared and practised, to egophobia as suicidal tendence or reason. It just depends on the random god of whateverness. What more could someone desire? I hate myself cause my egophobia did not show itself to me yet, this is a possible direction. Do you dare to run or just a simple walk is enough?

Also think about what may mean egophobia for a genius. It's not my turn anymore. The ball is in the air and players are required. Egophobia ain't out there like the final frontier or something. It's here, inside us, waiting hungry. The ball is falling...

@ Sorin-Mihai Grad


Alex. Sigartău

The Epitaph of Cold River / The Rebirth of Furnace

I. Prologue

I keep laughing; once again
on the roof of the mushroom
where unbearable heat withers all color.
The cemetery snow lies unwalked upon,
all though many ghosts have yet to pass.
Where silence was before,
now, there is nothing;
without noise, I am scared
for I can't find myself.
The images are broken
where survivors should be.
Pieces lay scattered in dust.

II. Cold River Dead

Drowned; the stream of thought
runs without motion
into what was once named peace.
Only now it is blurry and messy
such that I can feel no more;
this page is blank.
I didn't call for you, still you
betrayed me.
I foresaw that you should die
in the Rapid River, smashed
against the rocks, like that
photograph of you. Can you still see it?
For all the words you strived to find
have long been lost in that moment;
lamentation is no tool in the killer's hands.
Only now I begin to see that which
was so clear. Can I take it back?
Can I take you back to that moment?
The king of mediocrity
killing his only muse.
Ruins of suicide poets
guard the River and all is cursed,
and this, in turn, is cursed as well.
The time is near when the return
to the fires will come and then...
the dead muse will give birth
one last time.

III. Furnace Reborn

Birth, as Death, holds a terrifying vengeance.
No crude cuts, no tests,
no mockery fittings, ...,

only the first try out,
the most vindictive of all.
For there is no coming back
from this; no future self induced
As Furnace is reborn
in the hills, the mountains,
in sacred concrete,
Hope & Grief cease to hold any meaning.
There is no end,
there was no beginning,
and Furnace never died,
yet, ..., He is reborn.
And I am Furnace, and
all of you domesticated modern-day barbarians
are Him as well,
for He never died...
He never died!

IIII. Epilogue

The Holy Duality, always in perfect balance.
The dispute of the Empty over Nothing.
For I hear not the music but the
sound, decomposed and barren,
as from the beginning it was meant.
Alone in Perfect Space, perfect void of
Duality. Not knowing, not searching,
nor winning or loosing; still, forever
Contamination is a metaphor for Birth.
An universe away from thee;
Seek not and not find.
Write, with an empty mark.
Know, with an empty mind.
See, with an empty soul.
And where there was a River Cold
and where there is a Reborn Furnace
the Duality of Holy and of perfect form
always shall begin as always shall end,
in the never-ending, never-begun cycle of the
Be it Heaven,
or be it Underground,
is still a long way away from
Perfect Space.

@ Alex. Sigartău



am I wrong, Lazarus?

I suppose they forgot to cut your throat
they were too busy making love
on the vernal ladder
they did it
the old fashioned way
"among the ruins
and the flowers"

she said it was ok
to fly like
a sparrow
he smiled and turned against
the dying willow

am I wrong... Lazarus?

schizoid dream

have you seen my earthen limb...
dead, before me like a crown ?

I see kings of clay with rabid eyes
manic preachers in disguise
I see the moon in darkened skies
I see thy tears, that gently rise
like newborn creatures of the night
and yes, I see the little child
playing in the candle light
I see angels by his side
and death in every color
and death in every shadow
and death in everything

smile, my mocking bird
smile, my mocking bird

knives are marching in

a painting (another way of keeping a journal)

the sparrow is blessed, says the quarantined priest, waiting for the moth
john doe is mummified and relieved, dancing on the severed wing of a nightingale
the painting is born in the palm of a maid, swirling like a toad, the paintbrush
collapses in an epileptic fit, hitting the ground
to the sound of horses pounding the sky
to the sound of midgets hung on rainbows
to the sound of unicorns and shadows
to the sound of crucified clowns and memorial winos
the bottle is as thin as a kiss, the silken glass bears the reminiscence of a
darkened piano
liquefied into a sequel
the dusk is soft and crippled by the summer rain
it will surely transform into a mirror
as all sunburned peepholes do, one after another in an endless row of garments
and columns
literally ripped apart by the shrewd Mediterranean storm, but intact in the end ...
just like a cruel puppet
in a lethargic posture


Ada Ionescu

Wild mood swings: 1996

Find myself in the same room
I really feel as 8 years ago
Find myself with the same... scar, lie, attempt, disease, curse, light, shadow, image, mirror, music, cigarette, spectre, failure, cure, wish, end, hell, cut, bridge, part, way, other, poetry, confusion, pretence, love, life, unreal, design, smile, hurt, blue, crow, wings, psychology, reverse, blood camel, sepia, myth, picture, feather, sky, loneliness, time, connection, darkness, rose, disconnection, complexion, dissection, graveyard, crash, me, hopelessness, crave, mother


Alexandra Vatamanu

In the death with no veil
do i remember my angels? they ask
although keep on killing each move with each move
my fear wrote words that death understood until sound is not heared
this town is not this town, can i twist it round the way it was

about retire and teachings, smoke is heard
kaos what road did i take in for a living?
the words of the blank history, same numbers and pearls take their resemblance
i do not know, and the not is a change that seats forever

my mistake awaits and i'm still ahead of it
question the contradiction that falls before you name it?

Ancient letters what i said compare the identical
the feets await coldness
turment, more dreams change more dreams say the channel
red cross strikes murder on the still
look behind, after, you and close the gates left

@ Alexandra Vatamanu


Sorin-Mihai Grad


I am a city of stone,
My blood is a river of sadness and solitude
Carrying all the nothings I hide inside
Into the rancid swamp called heart I'm said to possess,
Like a flower is nothing
While the factory of dust works ahead.

My brain is made of nitroglycerine
And my head of glass, so anyone can see
The lost soul haunting under my hair,
Yes... I love heavy metal,
Headbanging... unfelt desire,
So fragile... Did you get the metaphor?

My eyes have my mother's sadness buried into,
I feel them always so sick of view,
My hands still shiver, as of fear
Of the dark or of the fall,
My feet make cheap music when walking
While my heart... do I really have one?

My way was a burial into agony,
Senseless flight from life,
I was a sad jester with fake jokes,
I am a stiffy corpse still creeping ahead,
Cannot feel but pain, and whatever...
Ashes to ashes, dusk to dusk.

Another Me

I'm my own poet,
I'm my sole shadow,
I'm my only crime,
I'm haunting my way,
I'm killing my soul,
I'm denying myself.

My lost tomb is blue,
I'm stepping into
Each second comes through.
I won't attend my funeral,
Nor deny it lingering outside,
I won't change the waves
Leading my agonic dream,
I may feed my saucer
From my frozen liver.

I'm considering me killed myself.

I live as a paper's dream,
Preparing a poemless volume,
Tryin' to deny each hero
May turn my book from insanity...
So sick of me!!!
The memories are dry
As an empty cloud
Seen by the darkest sunshine ever tasted
By my stonehead and the red tulip nearby.

I'm so tired I can't even hate myself...

Behind Brackets and Stars

There is a God I don't have the talent to forget,
Too dreams to lie,
I wish I had a green dog
And I remained blue-eyed and white-haired
Like while my oldest me once
Upon a time.
There was a story noone ever told,
Not even knew, that's its secret,
So there is no trace to follow,
No grace to charm other's words
And what's beyond.

The God I started to doodle about,
Was it happy when burying me into this cavernish coffin

Called me?
I cried for my first grave,
But in vain... as always.
I'm the worst joke he ever played anyone,
One can hear only one laughter: mine,
When reminding it;
Haunted by its angels
I need a place to play my loneliness
Outside any shadow,
So I yell:
Here I am and I can't lose my mind!

@ Sorin-Mihai Grad


Cristian Icleanu

Path in Two

A path has been so many ways
Up on hills and down on valleys
Depressed at crossroads and confused at forks
My path is knowing but the traveler spent

There are so many paths in all directions
Some are wise and some are blind
Sometimes they cross or follow from behind
But seldom do they overlap and the traveler rejoice

The rule is that the traveler always walks alone
And dreams of merging paths or at least a crossroad
But these do often not occur
And when they do, they never seem to last

Most surprising the travelers are optimists for they keep on walking
Not knowing where they go
Or when or whether their paths will overlap
As sad, alone, optimists we keep on wondering.

Depressive Chain

I am together and wait into my cell
The day I'll see the light again
The moment I'll loose my chains
The day I'll fall into my grave

Today I've lost my shadow
It ran into the light
Together with my soul it fled
Now on a beautiful tree it's sealed

Sister will you grab my hand
Reach inside into the cell
Stick your hand within the bars
Stay with me lost, watch the rusty stars

The stench of urine on the wall
The taste of putrefaction on the floor
The rot and darkness I am in
Makes me sick up to my blood and veins

I'm feeling dizzy and I want to fall
I've walked this room for much to more
I know it all, it's every scar;
And I'm all alone, alone by far...


Somewhere in the night
I see myself
Standing on a hill
Watching the skies cry

In a second, and a lifetime
The clouds open
Making way for the stars
Letting them join, in one

Descending and falling
Gently touching the ground
Into the darkness of the graveyard
And calling for my hand, for me

Where life is forgotten
Where nothing is everything
Where no one makes the distance
And where God makes no difference

In the place where love is pure
And never forgotten
Where hate is lost
Buried, beneath the stones

This is where she's waiting
For the making of a dream
To hold me at her breast
And ask for forgiveness

Kiss me on the place
Where the tears fall
And let your life drip into mine
Into the ground and the stars

Let me fall asleep
Let me carry on my cross
To fade in the night
To be one, with life itself

To watch the world
From a white cloud
To sit and drown
In your love, my love.


Andrei Vădan

Always (in front of the bullet)

Hard, with white-clean teeth
Detailed wisdom, impact of the mind
On it's own spirit of rebellion...
Silence is enough.

Seen your picture, painted in blue and grey
Start again, and faint for a moment
Just the same fear, same taste of today
Slow motion towards a shadowy atonement.

And again, on waves of desolation
A myriad of lost dreams, in slow rotation
The silhouette of future proof, future isolation
I see through it, the wake of souls, silent ovation.

suicide (floating high over tall trees)

one by one they fall;
i'm so used to this,
something is scratching
making a noise, of
pure forgiveness;
cry of night-born babies
eyes on the burning floor
thoughts will be
with you, between cold walls,
there is
no illusion

i meditate... i try
at least, the last pill,
(your forgiveness),
piercing through worlds of
dream and long ago.

internal darkness, it screams
i place my head
on rain-wet ground

and hope this could last
forever... sus!

about us / for authors

εγωφοβια is an independent cultural e-journal published every two months dedicated mainly to original contributions in literature and philosophy. However, we are open to any submissions containing materials from related areas such as drawings, photographs, music or movie reviews, articles of history or futurology and so on. Even though there are (so far!) only Romanians involved in this project, so the whole site is in Romanian, we encourage the submission of English texts. If necessary, we will consider the translation of some other parts of the site into English. As the e-zine brings no income, we are sorry to announce that the contributions cannot be remunerated. The texts submitted for our consideration in order to get published must be sent via e-mail to as .rtf or .txt attachments. We kindly ask you not to send us more than five poems once. However, for any other kind of text there are no limits concerning dimension or quantity. All the texts received for publication will be reviewed independently by two members of our editorial staff, in case of disagreement the final decision belongs to the editor-in-chief. We will inform you by e-mail whether will we publish your text or not. Any misspells or typing errors in the accepted texts will be settled together with the author. The authors are asked to send us also some personal info (age, place, country, publications, website, ...) together with the texts and are kindly invited to sign the messages with their real names. However, they may use pseudonyms when being published, as well as attach some personal info to the published text. If you want to write for us permanently or to become a member of our staff, feel free to use our e-mail address, sus!