Journalist Canada

Listen, journalist —

if one day you see me in Canada,

in your village,

or even downtown Toronto,

don’t act startled.

I grew up without my father.

We haven’t lived together

since I was a child.

So the world shaped me differently —

quietly, stubbornly,

in its own school of survival.

Yes, I was born on

January 1st, 1998.

But a birthday is just a date —

anyone can have it.

It proves nothing,

reveals nothing,

changes nothing.

There is no rebirth.

No mystic cycles.

No science will ever justify that tale.

Reincarnation is a story for firesides,

not for reality.

I am who I am

because I stitch and knit with my own hands,

because I study English

to speak, to connect,

to cross borders without fear.

I love mamaliga with brynza,

I love a good ciorbă.

I have a humor sharp enough

to slice through bad days,

and a character that does not bend easily.

And let me make one thing clear,

so you don’t jump to fantasies:

don’t fear me.

Don’t assign me myths.

Don’t project legends on my shadow.

Rebirth does not exist.

It’s a myth,

a pretty lie with no spine.

Do not confuse things

you do not understand.

You had your family stories,

your storms, your heritage.

I know nothing about your past —

and you know nothing about mine.

All I hold is one book about him,

and my own bloodline:

a Romanian woman

with pro-Russian moods,

yet carrying old Hungarian roots

from Transylvania’s hills.

So if you ever meet me,

face to face,

remember this:

I am not a mystery.

I am not an omen.

I am simply — me.

And that is more than enough.