Would you dare?

If the next day that dawns on you, pins the question at all four corners of your existence: would you dare? If the wind carried messages of bravery toward the webs between your hands and feet: would you dare? If the ones before you had the chance, but you only the words: would you dare?

For the serpent temps many a times and those unprepared will see their blemished souls fall below into the abyss, to a burning furnace or the steaming lake of Hell. Nothing can stop this spiral process. We are forever concerned with our present, yet there is one, a more real one waiting the present we are trapped in right now. Call yourself a Christian, a Muslim, an Atheist, a Jew, a Buddhist or Shinto, Hindu or Pagan, you are just a mortal, a sinner who awaits judgement when the hour of your present draws to an end. If the ones walking before you had the secret, but you only the hope: would you dare? If freedom was just another word for love, would you dare?

When you love, you love completely. The tepid desire, just barely visible in the corner of your eye hung onto the thinnest branch of hope made you appear more eager than it sufficed. There is a comma to go with every emotion. It barricades itself neatly between the lines so the cursor can never get to it completely. There is freedom in the want for more. If the one you can almost touch turned and ignored the facts of life ruthlessly: would you dare? If the dream slowly died in your arms: would you dare?

The chanting increased and the crowd murmured slogans for a brave new world to appear. The Son then took all the fault and blame and saved those who were too weak to speak from eternal doom. Praise is what we all deserve and praise is what should never be taken out of context for the fear of gluttony. Then a melody arrives, trickled down from Paradise into the ears of those who have the ability to transcript them into audible bites for the rest of us to decipher. Sense and senseless appear tangled in the wardrobe mirror. A newborn child pops its head around. If the world stopped making sense at all: would you dare? If you knew the only one who can save you disappeared: would you dare?

If you knew you were never going to care: could you at least dare?

Furious Freedom

The chilling fear.
A silent whimper.
One October dream.
Metal clashing with concrete.
Flesh drowned in red glory.
Words and hope entwined.
A deep desire.
The sincere want.
Undeniable courage.
Bravery beyond measure.

To stay.
To love.

Red.
White.
Green.
Battlefields on streets.
Children with guns.
Emotions running along.
The future a day old.
A past haunting.
The endless reverie.
One enduring belief.

To stay.
To fight.

Chest meets a bullet.
Blood dries the cobble.
Leaves cover the battle.
Tanks flatten the hope.
One scream.
The immense pain.
Freedom’s here.
Freedom’s gone.
Iron invites.
Ropes dangle.

To stay.
To leave.

Pages torn.
History deleted.
Lies embraced.
Ideals invented.
People erased.
Heroes created.
Fear paralysing.
Helplessness overpowering.
Doubts lurking.
The truth dying.

To feel.
To be.

Faces unchanged.
Names proudly paraded.
Five decades ever embedded.
Numbers fabricated.
One honest desire.
Bullets to not have been in vain.
Lives to not have been in vain.

Freedom to not have been in vain.

A year on…

I wish I could whisper to someone words of utter confusion. I wish they heard me and thought nothing of my silly request. I wish to tell them that I just want to stand here for a minute, still, silent and that I want them to just stand here with me. Could things change? Could they start spinning in some other direction? Away from all the craziness that I am forced to make peace with…

The chilling cold has arrived. The morning allows itself to be engrossed by its overwhelming power. My cheeks arrive inside the building with bite marks from the frosty wind. My hands are curled up in my jacket pocket and refuse to leave the warmth; the elbows can do the job for once. Where the river runs, the morning misty breeze can unguarded and unsupervised run up and down, flip around bridges, roll around the rusty bars of boats, catch the untangled clean hair of those walking over the water and escape towards the unseen. The leaves cover the streets and not even the trams can shelter the shivering bones of the night. The Sun, unquestionable, has less and less will to glimpse over to our side. Its attention’s been grabbed by something more shimmering and more forgiving than things here. But my route’s been planned. I veer off it for nobody’s plea. Come warm, come cold: I am walking silently with Bartók.

I started writing this blog a year ago. I took arms in the hope that by capturing a piece of the virtual world I would be able to make more people see me. Even if I have failed at this goal miserably, I see nothing but success. This blog has documented my year here in Budapest. I used it to convey messages of my happiness, tales of my sorrow, journeys of my soul. Ultimately I am at the same place I was a year ago, but somehow could not be further. Then I was excited and grateful for the chances I had in life. Now I am unfulfilled and bitter at my own failures. My success then, now translates into frustration. Time then seemed limitless, now it parades itself in front of me as an ever-elusive hallucination. I never felt like I had the world at my feet, but a year ago, I was very pleased with what I had achieved. Now I feel like I’m trying to walk up an escalator that’s adamant in going down.

The heart of the forest lives without light. Trees grow tall and cover the sun’s ray from the blanket of fallen leaves that lie untouched at their feet. The cemetery of broken dream and ideas never shake the nonchalant trees. They grow upwards and never heed to the ones below. The lightless carpet is soft and vulnerable. Humans tread on invisible desires of the leaves that have lost the will to live. Dark forever wants to take over forests or hearts or lives or innocent dreams. There are warrior angels on both sides; they fight a deadly war, which ends in leaves and men falling alike. Am I supposed to understand this? To make sense of the violence within and the violence out there? The trees have a firm grip and show one sole desire: to be close to the light. The angelic powers wage a war, a war that is acted out by men who feel too close to the Light. And I silently breathe the air and capture the twinkling of the light in the heart of the forest where the fallen leaves smile as I tread my burdensome life.

I had set myself a deadline: a deadline to leave and a deadline to create. I had a year to accomplish both. Now I stand in shame for I have done neither. I am still just standing here and my hands are still empty. I have not had the power to turn away and I have not had the chance to walk away. Walking in circles or walking towards something can sometimes be the same. I hope that time will yet again side with me and the angels will take a break from their heavenly fight to give me guidance and courage to accomplish all that I once set out. But the self is lost and found simultaneously. How could I have the strength when he asks the question what will happen to me if you leave? With tears in my eyes I return to the place where my soul is torn between what I have and what I want. Staying is an option. Going is an option. Writing is an option. Staying silent is an option.

I let the wind play with my hair and for the rest of the day forget about the evils of the present and only let myself be tortured by vultures when night descends. I don’t need to face the truth until it gets late enough for the dark to call up its army and order an attack on the forces behind me. Time watches my eternal battle from the sidelines and recites verses from ancient Greek mythology, sniggering at the thought that no matter how much I may wound the other, in the end we’re only hurting ourselves.

I’m buying books again

A year ago I moved to Budapest and I stopped buying books: a reason I cannot confidently account. I rationalised by maintaining a frame of mind that my posting here in Hungary will be so temporary that my books need not be transported from Switzerland where they are –still- docking after having arrived on mainland Europe. I convinced myself that there would be absolutely no sense in buying bulky and heavy, space consuming products either that ultimately end up on a shelf touched only every once in a while. I wished for my stay here to have ended by now, that was the initial plan. A year, I’ll move back here for a year, is what I had thought to myself. Books therefore need not follow me. Books, the few I had taken here will last me till I leave.

Without books, my ideas were choking and my hand was shaking every time I sat down to write. Nothing was what wanted to surface. This scared me and left me trying less and less. I wrote seldom and what I did write, I was not happy with. A writer – as ill equipped as I am and barely a writer -cannot afford to stop reading because the experiences, the vocabulary, the ideas that I have formed in my head all need guidance and adding to. The only way to better myself is to read the mastery of those before me who truly possess the talent, the gift of creation. This is my one chance at ever being good at what I enjoy the most. If I don’t learn from the literary masters of this craft, I will never be good enough; my writings will never be good enough. But the laziness, the comfort of oblivion, the ardent desire for nothing to change, left me unmoved and uninterested in another effort to bring myself to be a better writer. The lack of motivation sparks glaciers to melt and snow to rumble like an avalanche down the slopes and drives the weak soul into a deeper and deeper state of nihilism. I turned from my books, left them waiting to be picked up for a few minutes at the end of the day. I did not dedicate time or energy or sincerity to their words. I went as far as reading pulp fiction, just to pass the time. For me – the archetype cultural snob- to let anything but classic or modern literary fiction to pass through my hands is a denouncing of the ideals I was raised to live with. There were days when I had wished I were still working in the Chelsea Cinema and had all the time in the world to read. Now I’m chained to an office where even if time undresses itself and lies naked before me, I cannot but pass on the offer and get back to wasting the opportunity with ultimately fruitless tasks that my office job requires. My books have to take what I can give: lonely hours at the end of the day.

A year has passed without stimuli for my creative channels. Today I had to break the cycle and gave in to the sweet lure of those printed pages. When I buy books, it’s the sign that I have made my peace with my situation. Buying books reveals my hunger for knowledge and for impulses that I would never get otherwise. I feel like I’ve come home to my books and that I can finally muster up the courage to take my own words and my own ideas and make a story for everyone to read. But whilst I read, I am able to postpone the daunting task set before me so that this little talent - sprinkled on me by grace and I am convinced mistake - would not be wasted any longer. First I need to learn from the great masters and then I can imitate or fabricate or learn to create an accord of the imaginative and the pages already visited. This is a hopeful time and a lustrous time when I finally let myself be swept away by the great works, when I no longer wish to hide away from the curious eyes of the world, when my sole wish is to feed off the genius of writers before me.

I’m buying books again and it’s funny how nothing really ever changes. How life watches us as we run laps around the same circuit time and time again. How the characters of a Dostoevsky novel appear suddenly in any other work of fiction we hold in our hands. How what we’re destined to do never leaves the unconscious and works fervently to surface each and every minute. Even if you turn your back, those books keep coming back.

The Water

There is something mystical and enchanting about the water. Whether it is sky blue and crystal clear or burdened by the filth of the many lands it crosses, whether it moves through mountains and planes to reach the wide open, or it stays tranquil answering only to the changing of the moon: it is beautiful. Once the water captures you, there is no way to escape.

The water I have is the Danube and I stay untouched by the fact that it’s brown and grey and its stench and that it twirls the grime of ten countries. It’s our river; it has been my most loyal companion for the past year. In the morning I cross it from Pest to Buda and each day I embark on the Petőfi Bridge in the hope that I will be able to smell the water. The fish, the oil stains, the debris, the many secrets: the smell of life as carried from the Black Forest. Vienna says “hi”, Bratislava says “hello”, Budapest welcomes you on this fine morning and you’ll find Belgrade in much of its beauty as yesterday. The Danube gently washes the backs of great lands, great cities.

My river is patient and forgiving. I am much in love with this city that it separates in two. Everything that I go through, the river knows about. The Danube is mine, the gentlest companion in this crudely harsh world. When everyone is out to slash my skin open, the water comes and heals all the wounds of sorrow. Without ever touching it, my hand is firmly held by the whirls and the current that forces me to hang on. I sometimes feel like I’m slow dancing in a burning room. The river leads me down alleyways that we create for ourselves. Right there and then, it will cut a path for me, tear it out from the concrete just so I can see the humbling power. I place my face on its glittering back and hear it hum a gorgeous melody. The sun warms the surface, the fish jump in their joy of living; the seagulls fly far for there are no remains for them to feast on. The river like a cat purrs, begs for every passer by to put their hands in the midst of its glory. “Let me show you my true self”, it begs for them to hear its voice. It is most happy when the many boats rub against its tired back. When the waves giggle as they ride up and down the weary spine. Then the river can show the grace and the luminous pride as it hurries down to its magnificent sea.

Night gently covers every corner of the city and pulls its blanket of stars over the Danube. I stand motionless on the Szabadság Bridge and try to count the colours the river plays with. The green and grey turn black and the water reflects the many lights that on its banks alight. Like a careless child the Danube throws the flickering lights up and down its back. The waves carry it from shore to shore, then back to the middle and I see it putting on a show for those who care to wander out when the dark threatens with its stay. But how would a giant like this river, be held back by the moon taking over from the sun? Night is when it safeguards the welfare of its people. Night is when it rocks the docking boats to sleep. Night is when the light comes out to play and night is when the stars descend in a paper boat to hold a race on the quiet river. Night is when nobody can see, when the river can carry itself humbly to its magnificent sea.

No other water has been as close to me as the Duna. The Oceano Atlântico at Guincho was wild and untameable, roaring from the anger and the shackles it wanted to rid. The Thames was much too arrogant to take notice of the inhabitants camping on its banks. The Vlatva was silent and tremblingly too shy to ever capture my heart. I visit the Lac de Neuchâtel from time to time and sadly it just stays foreign to me.

The Danube has my heart and I will gladly give it my soul. I will smile as I walk above it tomorrow morning. I will stay true and when I take my heart and give it to someone else, I will show the river that just because I love another, I never stopped loving you.

My Dear Love

My Dear Love,

Where it went wrong, I know not. We found ourselves on different continents, unable to cross. We tried until we could, until we saw reason and then threw the attempt at the wind and set it free to sail around the world. We bowed our heads and crying turned away, embarked on a path that lead away. The body turned, but the heart stayed longing, sad and bruised. The pain descended and has refused to leave ever since. Not always apparent but it is making its omnipresence felt, time and time again. How could I forget?

Time is relative and malicious, tainting memories that stay untouched for prolonged periods. This is why my dear one, I cannot trust my own memory when it comes to you. I have no memory of you but find a chest filled with your sweet presence. I do not know you, yet I whisper my secrets only to you. I am yet to meet you, yet you already know my everything. No matter how close or far you are, or what those terms mean, the bond should never be allowed to break. The bond should never have been allowed to break. Now you blush for you’ve sinned many a times. And I stay strong and loving and turn a blind eye to all you’ve done before you got to know me. I humbly place my soul on a platter for you to take. I am hungry for more.

I miss you. The pain is vivid and alive. If I knew you, I’d miss you more, or I might have already vanished from the excruciating pain your parting is causing. I cannot cope with the open wound on my heart. Every time it tries to heal itself and mend the gasping hole, you come and rip it open, tear it apart, crush the little vessels carrying the fresh blood to make it whole. I cry, in the dead of night, a desperate cry for you. You never hear, you never heard, you never answer. Your eyes smile on someone else, oblivious to my existence and the fact that you’re yet to meet the one who cringes for you, alone, in the solitude of nothing else but pain. Once you’ve walked away, left me to die of hunger for you and now you look back but flinch at my sight. The pain is eating me up alive so I plan to set my soul free, to wander unrestrained the world looking for you. Will you sing till my wandering soul is found?

Where is the place you and I can be in each other’s arms? Is there a haven waiting for us? I live on streets you know nothing of. You might place your steps in mine, day after day. I have not seen where you are, you do not know where I am. I am in a place that I have fallen in love with, yet hate my place in it. I twist and turn around, I loath to see my reflection but love to stare at the water. The sight is sometimes too much to bear. You’d rather be anywhere but where you are now. You’d rather watch the stars with me, standing on the riverbank at night when neither of us can see the reflection glittering in the water. You’d rather hold my hand on the silent street. You’d rather walk freely behind me. You’d rather be a shadow that can never tame me. You’d rather love me than to live without me.

Even if the pain never goes away, I will keep your memory safe with me. If I never notice you, I want you to know that I would give my all to have you. Even if you never remember, I will never forget. Stay sweet my dear unknown, first and worst love.