I’m growing fat on fantasy

The nakedness of the soul. To show the self stripped of all its glory. To tell the world the most private secrets. To hang every detail in the air for it to catch a drift and fly where it was never intended to go. Every fantasy blown up into billboard size. Where everyone can see everything till then hidden. To unmask the well protected spirit so that others can poke fun of. Shall I dare? Shall I dare as well?

I take centre stage. I want to tell my story. I want to be brave and show the parts that are sometimes dark. I want to enjoy the light. I want to say goodbye to Alice in Wonderland. I want to be afraid of the plans, the ideas, the yearnings in my mind. I want to say everything that I’m scared of accepting. I want to rid denial. I want to bathe in the beauty that surrounds me. I want to see the certain and I want to walk the road that equips me with the passion that keeps burning for all eternity. I want to embrace the desire. I want to live every reverie not running away but running towards the unknown.

So much power is lost in the voice. So much is lost between the mind and the mouth. Words escape me and all I am left with is the skeleton, the hard shell, which scarcely reminds me of the idea. It bears no resemblance to the one I had so clearly seen in my mind. But there is a constant need, desire to better myself. There is a constant yearning to see something more. I want to use these words, these words that are my friends one day and swear an oath against me the next. I want to lure them into my realm so that they will never want to escape me. I want them to obey and make stories for everyone to read. I want them to be proud and dance around the page like queens in a diamond ballroom. I offer them friendship in the hope that they will not forsake me. I will treat them right. I will give them ideas that will never tire their enthusiasm. I will take care of them and cherish their little lives. I want them to accompany me on this road that I want to be brave enough to embark on. The road I must start walking on sooner or later. The path that terrifies me. The one that I please by giving pieces of myself when it wants to whole of me.

And time. Time never leaves my side. Time reveals itself and shows its magic only to me. Sometimes I get lost with time on a field covered with flowers of all colours. I lie there dreaming of stillness and time next to me dreams of an end to eternity. What is tiresome to me is a pleasure for time. So I take time by the hand and show both of us the strength that I have inside. The strength that I am learning day by day to tame. There are things to fear for my friends the words and my friend time as well. I have demons and powers, devils and angels inside me that are shouting ever louder. They want to escape and see the surface. Those who choose to walk by my side will have to make their peace with every part of me. With all of me. All the twists and all the unknown and all the untamed and hidden and secret and protected.

Once I’ve grown old and will see the past before me like a map, I want to turn to my words and thank them. I want to stroke them and have tears fill my eyes. I want to bow before them and appoint them the real masters. I want to embalm them and see them take their rightly deserved place on the page protected by a heavy cover. Page after page. Them smiling back at me with content. I want to live to see that day. I want to live to be all I want to be. I want to have my words do the talking for me. This is all I want.

Universal Fighters for a Home

Brothers and sisters in arms, have you found home? Have you ever stopped to think where that home may be? Is it easier to clench an ideal rather than live in reality? Where is the home that’s nothing more than peace and love? Where is the end of the struggle you’ve been living to keep alive?

What kind of home forces its people to grab arms and kill in its name? What kind of sick and demented home is it if it needs to see the blood of children? What kind of mutant of an idea circles in the heads of those who proclaim to do everything in the name of the home? Where is it written that a home can only be yours through massacre? Kill as many, maim as many, hate as many as you possibly can for I am the HOME and this land is your HOME and there can never be anything else but the HOME.

There are parades where the sounds of rifles shooting to aim at someone from the same home will drown out every other celebratory sounds. There is nothing glorious about having a home where the streets are decorated with corpses and amputated limbs swimming in a pool of blood. Why then, brothers and sisters in arms, do you STILL believe in the lie that your home wants you to fight? Why do you think yourselves to be righteous? Why can’t you see that the land you're fighting for is not home, just war? Why can’t you realise that home is never geography but people? Would you fight for people or just a piece of soulless soil? Is it easier to kill an innocent man who stands on that soil which you claim to be yours than forgive and invite him into your homes? You’re young and beautiful, why oh why do you let the ancient fuel hatred into your fragile minds?

Home can never be defined anything else but love. But I doubt that you kill for love and destroy for love. I doubt you know the meaning of patriot love. I doubt you can love. I doubt you know what it means to have a home where that home means love. I doubt you’d see it even if it bit you in the eyes. I doubt you’d let love in. I doubt you’d give up those arms for the sake of love. This is why my brothers and sisters is arms you will never have a home and you will never have a home that’s love.

I wish I could promise you a beautiful world

When was the last time you went to the cinema and the first person to leave stood up when the gaffer’s name appeared in the end credits? None of them stirred. For how could they when humanity was depicted on the screen in the most unspeakable way. Silence hung in the auditorium and nobody dared to speak. All their faults, all their lies and their unwillingness to acknowledge hung on the big screen in front of them. In front of me. Every person we ever turned our backs to came rushing forward in our memories. Every child that we saw pictured abandoned by love, hope and peace floated in our minds’ eye. Everything that we hold dear left us. Everything that we knew to be right fooled us.

Sitting and wishing for a perfect end was not what I caught myself doing. The problems apparent in societies that are tortured by the developed world should not be new to any learned man. Corruption, exploitation, killing, feeding the lust for violence is all that we know too well to teach the innocent and humble. Destroying their cultures and hierarchies, their customs and their ways of dealing with sorrow, death, love, life, children is all we ever showed them of our perfect civilization. I am to blame because I stay silent. I am to blame because I go on worrying about myself. I am to blame because I see the black end of the endless road and keep it a secret. But that piece of metal that is blindly and wrongly and willingly thrust into any part of the body silences those who stand up and YELL. But fear does not paralyse the good ones. Those with a mission and heart will never be made to sit back and watch the terror unfold.

War on terror? This is terror. Children running scared from their countrymen who are out to steal, kill, rape, capture IS terror. Women who are given drugs to help battle deadly diseases that kill them in the end IS terror. Multi national corporate hell bound companies giving free medicine to the needy, which they know will wipe them out IS terror. Seeing your helpless flesh and blood take another pill of poison IS terror. Nobody is out to get these terrorists. Nobody dares to speak up and unveil because these terrorists don’t fly planes into heartless objects, they kill only and ONLY your own. If this isn’t, then what is terror? There is no war being fought where the money keeps rolling in. There will never be a war fought for those who are bound by severe illnesses. There is no hope, there is no cure, there is no peace and there is no salvation for any of us, for we are doomed to burn in hell.

I wish I could promise you a beautiful world, my unborn child. But this is all we’ve got: this world, where half of us have no voice, where half of us don’t count. There is no beauty in this world, at least not reflected in humans. I wish I could see where it all would end, but the ties get twisted more and more. Something that is far away seems unable to effect us. Something that happens to others we know nothing of seems to escape us. Africa never touches our hearts. Africa never has a face. Drugs cure. Drugs never kill. Drugs work and Africa will be saved, but Africa stays in the shadows of giants who want to sell, buy, live, torture and feed the need to kill.

I wish I could promise you a beautiful world, my unborn child but the world is dying because there is nobody loud enough to shout STOP!

Writing relentlessly in vain

Is there a point to all this? It’s not that I am profoundly disappointed or disinterested in the world or that I doubt the significance of the written word, I only question the relevance of a few jotted and hidden ideas published on pages that never existed. Is this any different to writing for the desk drawer? What if there are ideas that people have to learn about? What if there are valuable words and thoughts that should be shared? What is the reward and what if the light kills all the best intentions? Is it in the writer’s destiny to be ridden, crippled, mutilated by self-doubt? Can true creativity not thrive on something whole and healthy and balanced?

I see pictures of beautiful babies. I read stories of love, revenge, betrayal and the all too often mundane and not at all important. What happens to the stories if nobody reads them? Do they stay stories or become mere words on a piece of virtual paper? So many times the issue of worthlessness comes to a hand. For why do I sit here and write when there’s really nobody who will be affected? But one that sees these words as a matter of life and death cannot deny the process of creation. One who feels that staying alive and breathing can only ever be through creating thin threads of ideas and hanging them out into ether for anyone and everyone to reach it, writing is essential. If there is no way to create, there is no way to live. If there is no way to write, there is no way to stay alive. Nobody cares and nobody will ever read, but to create is to save oneself from eternal darkness, from drowning in a fearful sea.

Even if there is little point, there has to be words written on the page. Even if they say nothing at all they have to be there to keep at least one of us sane and maybe safe. I’ll read it. I’ll love it. I’ll live it. I’ll create the haven from which strands of beauty will grow. I’ll create the wisdom, which will spread its white wings over the lives of others. I will hold down the rain and I will catch the smile of the ever darkness. I will write so you can come and say: what’s the point to all this?

Before and After

New Year

There’s a new year. There’s a chance for the start of something new, but everything moves much the same way as it did a week ago. Still, there are tales to be told, there are people to love, there are streets to hate and moments that recoil to the same place they start from. And in time everything changes with the unique capability of staying the same. To understand this paradox, to understand that the burning flames sometimes can be ice cold requires the skill of a magician. For time moves with the speed of light and achieves nothing and a whole lot simultaneously. Time breaks hearts and heals wounds; time is chained to the never ending clichés of an overtly verbal life. Alas, for all our tries and better judgement, we disregard time and its clear warnings about our futures. We bow not to the silent and invisible one, but to the shiny and vulgar that attracts the eyes. Those who are humble get nothing and are cast in the shadows of those who are rowdy and impolite. Forgiveness lingers in the misty air, ever elusive and always beyond reach.

There’s a point in this non-story where I have to stop and almost pragmatically introduce the direction my letters will take so as to keep the audiences - using plural may be a bit too ambitious, but one has to aim high. So we continue our journey inside the wondrous world of twisted realities and shattered hopes, undreamed dreams and yearning for nothing less than pure love. On this road, there are signs showing the way but they are scrambled and give no comprehensible guidance. There are maps drawn by toddlers that look more like circles of princesses than paths to an answer. In this jungle of well-stirred emotions I offer to hold your hand whilst I guide you towards the middle or the end.

There are a lot of things circling in the air. There’s our friend Bartók appearing again. There’s the idea of mortality creeping its way into every corner of the existence. There are disputes that no decaf herbal tea could ever fix. There’s a whole amalgam of ideas that circle around a Magic Mountain. All in all, there’s a chunk of time that nobody can account for, but still exists on all planes of this life.

Talking in riddles is what I do best. To solve them you have to know a lot about me. You have to be me to know what I write, which is a very bad way of trying to attract audiences. But what I feel I wrap in tin foil, store in vacuum and let out only amidst the fog of undecipherable words. What Bartók would express in musical notes, I express in written words. What Maszat would express in tail wagging, I express in allegories. What Anya would express in spoken words, I express in writing. Still, I find myself no further than where I have started from.

The boy and the girl, my dear friends Feri and Dió have moved into an apartment on Bartók street. Maszat, my dear little vizsla has become ill and had all sorts of nasty things taken out of her during an abrasive surgery. My mother, the one who I view as the most important has been hurt by my harsh words in a way that created scars, which will never heal. For this, I am truly sorry. For all of this, I am truly sorry. There is maybe no time for me to apologize, to hold a grudge, to turn my back on anything. I try my best every day and go to bed with the illusion that I have created something out of thin air. But I trip and fall and break down, just like all of us. There is no time to elude oneself with immortality no matter how attractive the idea is. Cancer grows and needs to be stopped. Harsh words leave the body and dance in the air until they reach the ear of the other and cannot be stopped. There is so much that I want to change, but I would never want to be anyone else but me.