Old Loves and Dreamy Eyes

It was a long, lonely night. There seemed no sense in making the best of the times alone. There was something missing. There was nothing to fill the void of love. There came no screams of pledges promising undying devotion and a never-ending love. But who knows what they wanted to hear? Who knows whether love was at all what they had in mind... Because it is easy to assume that love means roughly the same thing to most. That it brings warmth and yearning, that it tricks the round into thinking it’s square. This was a feeling of utter desperateness. This was no mood that a nice glass of cold liquor could have cured. This was by no means a matter to be handled lightly. As the night progressed they seem to have become more and more demanding. They wanted to see what is naked to the eye. They sat concentrating eternally on that moment, on that wish of happiness. They wanted to gather all the strength that they collectively could to try and move the Earth in the opposite direction. For love makes mountains move…But they never could. The air was still and silence hung in the middle of the room like a great big clock with a pendulum to chime at every hour and yell the fact into the dreaming faces that time is slowly and rapidly moving forward. Nothing was thought to have done in vain. The night could have been lonely, but for them, who chose the company of their own memories, no night was ever lonely. When everything that’s gone turns into reality, turns into a distorted reality of the mind, then no night can ever be lonely. It’s a natural defence mechanism and from time to time it proves to work.
Where is he? Came the question and no answer followed. He was everywhere. He was in the mind, he was buying dinner, he was lying low in the trenches, he was the one who was sitting right next to them. The question circled in the room. An almost inaudible wailing followed the desperate cry, for he was gone. He was gone, but he was living a life lived many a year ago. That night, just like this was long and lonely. There seemed no hope, but his pretty face covered the screen of memories. That night might have been an ordinary night, but magic was created. The type of magic that can live on forever and ever. He had a careless smile and ran around in circles trying to prove that he could defy the laws of gravity. He was a force to be reckoned with. The fall is only really bad, when the expectations of landing are moved beyond the reasonable. They missed each other. It’s a lie that a void can slowly be filled, that a void that was mine can slowly be yours. Where is he? How much drugs can make the past come back to life? ...

Far, far, far

Everything seems a little too far. Every feeling, every experience, every love, every tear, everything. I place myself on an entirely different plane and I find that everything’s a little too far away. I see only distorted images that are engraved in my memory, but are not living. The past is not living in me, it’s stale and dead and left behind. And then I delude myself with thinking that I connect so well with every little bit of history, of my own history. I think that time is never against me. That distance only exists on paper. That I can trick everyone who says being far is being gone into believing that I will be the first to defy that statement. But reality sinks in and I know that I’m far too far.

No matter how perfect now is, and it is almost always perfect, I miss the then and I fear the next. I hold my breath until now comes again and takes the place of the next. I bind myself in this box of a paradox so that I never have to face my fears. I look back, never in anger, always with love and think that by looking back, I actually live the past. I think that by thinking about the past, I manage to make time stand still. I think that just maybe I have enough power to never just lose, but win this battle that I don’t even realise I’m fighting. But then, there’s always something to remind me that I’m far too far.

Habits don’t scare me and the new doesn’t scare me and I even dare to wave out of the window of my train slowly pulling away from all that I once knew. This is simply my plight and my pledge and my bleeding sorrow upon realising that time does indeed move linearly and I am together with all of you, moving with it. That I’m too small and too mortal to have an effect, to know and have the power to change the direction of our conveyor belt. And this is the reason that I get ripped out of the now and thrown into the next. This is why I feel far. Far too far.

But before I go insane, I learn to walk away. Head straight up, take the pain, take all that you can muster to take. So I leave the love. I leave the key. I leave the happy to see happier days commence with me. I leave people and places. I leave dinner and wines and tables and laughter. I meet people. I join dinners, wines and laughter. I shed everything, I bear the pain of a fleshless existence and then I learn to grow more beautiful skin. Every season I appear to be more than before. But as I get pulled away and the places and people grow ever smaller, I realise that screaming, “hey don’t forget me” will only confirm my fear that I’ve been moved too far away. Far too far away.

Táncház

The feet were thumping.
The floorboards were cracking.
The music was wooing everyone to give in and join the circle of people passionately moving.
The eyes were gleaming.
The heads were turning.
The feet were thumping.
The only light that stayed lit showed the air swiftly glowing.
The skirts were flying.
The men were sweating.
The instructions were compelling every idle foot to move quickly and rhythmically.
The sound was deafening.
The mood heightened with every foot thumping.

The girls were singing.
The boys were dancing.
The pairs were kissing.
The music was never ending.
The beers were flowing.
The mood was unchanging.
The world seemed healing.
The words were moving.
The eyes were gleaming.
The heads were turning.
The skirts were flying.
The men were sweating.
The feet were thumping.
The speed was continuing.
The passion was rising.
The singing was louder.
The dancing was faster.
The singing was louder.
The music was faster.
The singing was louder.
The THUMPING was ending.

The fog was descending.
The memory was fading.
The passion was burning.
The mist was hanging.
The lights were reflecting.
The sweat was drying.
The music was ending.
The air was cooling.
The river was flowing.
The whimsical night was descending.

Autumn

“Itt van az ősz, itt van újra”. I wonder if there’s any way of escaping the clichés, the allegories and the synonyms for autumn. Because there’s death, change, slowly slipping away written everywhere where there’s a mention of autumn. I think it’s simply beauty. This weekend had everything that autumn can encompass. There were the trees that have begun to dress up in a million coloured dresses. There were the cemeteries that flickered until the eye could see, warming the lost souls and reminding the living of the imminent end. Things faded away, slipped away, leaves fell, people dead, flowers frozen, candles burnt. But this weekend could not have been more beautiful.

Irony lurks at every street corner. Here I am talking about change, about things ending or moulding into something else and time yet again fails me. Time that should move in a linear matter seems to me to be an escalator that moves in the opposite direction to how I want to go. The ultimate test. So I sit and scribble any old thing that comes to my head. Sometimes with structure, but most of the time, just carelessly slipping out and channelling down my fingers into the keys on the keyboard. The simple juxtaposition of well-chosen words impresses people. Pieces of me get published in the most unexpected places. Then comes the subject of such writings: people, places, feelings, time and the past.

It seems very fitting that the autumn should represent letting go and let go I must. There is only one thing I have not been able to fully let go of and that’s love. Not love the romantic notion, not love embodied by another human being, but love that binds me eternally to time. Love that sees no reason for mercy and chains me to a path that twirls round and round towards the place it started from. Love that is no longer love, but a superior state of anxiety firmly establishing a choking grip on my soul. Now this, I must let go of. This I must not let creep back into my life. And come autumn and come cleansing. Ironically, the one that past writings have been about can no longer be reached. Time, love and anger have joint forces to shut down the only vessel that breathed simply to hurt me, to haunt me, to torture me. But now it’s all gone. Even if I wanted to – and humans have a tendency to want to rip old wounds open just to feel the pain and mask in the glory of living- I could not find the road back to self destruction: for he is gone and I am free.

Life slips out of nature; leaves cover the sidewalks and hide enormous deadly wells for us to fall into. But the beauty of it all maybe overrides the evil, the sorrowful and the lost.