Gigantic Fairytale

If I tell you about my journey, about the frightening lows and enchanting heights, the open bridges, the cliffs hanging upside down, the colourless autumn and the warmest winter, would you blink and turn away? Could you hold your disbelief? For I do walk the paths, revealing magic, evolving dreams, every single second. If huts of gold, giants of tender hearts, mice of feeble nobility, lions of virtue and children with unparalleled grasps of reality do not shake your disbelief, then let me assure you that my companions along the way are all noble hearted and kind, kindred spirits, who show love the way I could never imagine. I sway with the trees, not when they are naked and void of dignity, but when they are covered in luscious green leafs of oceanic magnitude. And never do I feel lost. You cannot make me feel at unease because you, I cannot see.

There are times I wish for kind magic. I would use it wisely and only to conjure those whom my heart yearns for so dearly. Some gone, some disappeared, some out of sight, some just hiding from the very moment Honesty and Truth will take over these lands. Nothing could be sweeter than the anticipated reunion. When spring meets winter. When silently summer slips into autumn. When the cold gives way to warm, bowing with might in righteous confidence that the tables will turn and in time the warm days will heed to the bitter cold. One beast cannot have two masters, therefore they take turns. My journey is still joyous and the more love filled because of the changes I witness day in day out. If I confessed to wishing for more gentleness, would you smirk and with a shudder walk away?

I hear whispers all around. Feet shuffling, leaves rustling. A path guarded both sides by loyal followers. My friends, companions, well wishers, partners in the grandest adventures. Every single breath they keep from causing a thunderous noise, every glance they direct towards me, every movement that gestures me to continue walking down the guarded pathway and with every step taken towards the warm, fuzzy, familiar unknown, these guardian angels of mine encourage me to say out loud to you: take my hand, take my whole life too.

With that confession, with that plea, I leave my heart and soul vulnerably susceptible, unshielded from attack. But honest. Doomed for a bloody downfall, but true to my heart. And those around me, loyal and loving friends, will witness in slow motion the end of a hopeful moment, the surrender of my willing soul, my heart’s painful journey to loneliness: if you won’t take my hand, if you will never care for my life. Smiling, I’ll retreat, back to where I know I’m safe. And I’ll keep breathing, walking, seeing the magnificent beauty in the world around me. The seasons, the buildings, the mountains and rivers, the people who I know and the ones I’m yet to meet. Love will lie low, but perhaps on an unimaginable sunny, winter day, it’ll capture my heart completely. Just by surprise it’ll hold me captive ‘til my dying days.

october two

Ten years to the day. Now I scribble on my arm. I search words that express emptiness. Apprehension. I await a trip that I don’t want to take. I want to fly further. Longer. I want to be near you. But just my heart, not my head. You leave me alone and I near tears. Sadness comes to overshadow and I hide.

I fear for me. I fear for you. Mostly we’ll be fine. Reluctantly I keep telling myself that we will love again, just not each other. So goodbye, you’ve taken plenty of my time. As sad as my heart is, it is time for it to be free. It needs to love again, but not you. No longer you. It is time for me to heal, without you. So I fly. Not to you, but I fly. Away from where I am today.

And you stay. Ten years to the day, you stay. Wait for none, cry for none, find love with another because you and I have lost our chance to love one another.

We will love again but just not each other.

He Wished For Simpler Times

The voice remained unrecognised. So close to my heart but somehow foreign in a setting that seemed unfamiliar at first. But how fitting! To sing the most personal song with the person who represents the most personal emotions. Whose music tore them apart or drove them closer. Just a final splinter, breaking the skin of her hand, lodging deep into the flesh, causing havoc and pain. Just a final push and now he’s won. He won the battle, he won the fight. He’s done.

Bitter, free, peaceful and lonely. There’s anger in tranquillity and there’s motion in stillness. And I’m swept away by the desire. The grace that so unexpectedly descends. That almost lurks, awaits the right moment, then traps the soul with one carefully aimed arrow. I am caught and will forever be held captive by those notes. By these words. By this voice, by this man, by this gentle loneliness. The moment will surely pass, the sudden infatuation will subside, but the deeper yearning will stay. Its memory will forever be held dear and kept alive out of fear or envy. I gladly succumb for I know no sweeter place than the soothing heaven of his words. Carry me far from where I am. Show me a place where I belong. Your pain will find home and your fragile optimism will find shelter. The rain may soak the shoulders of your cloak, but I will see to it that your love will be returned anew.

The times they are simple no more. Yet they could be. If you knew me. Knew me now. If I could see you. See you now. I waste most of my brand new days. I waste them thinking there was a way for you to know. But I stay lonely and alone, hanging onto the threads that you so carefully orchestrate to hang between the ones who desire and you, who desires none at all. But life could not be sweeter even if it’s bitter sweet. Even if only pain knows the sweetest remedy. I would not wish to change anything, to change anyone for you. You are not who you sing to be. Nor did you ever say you were.

If times become simple again, I might have you. If I wait it out, I might know you. But till then, I will listen and learn. In awe, in disbelief, in love, in bitter loneliness. In hope, in fear, in envy.

90 days passed and 9 more to go

If the changes that surround us become obstacles in the way we live our lives, then our lives need adapting so that the changes are met with more ferocity and less hostility. Power to the powerless and courage to those who fight change like a deadly enemy. Some need to be bold, some need to give up, some need to find solace in remorse. Because change will not disappear, only follow time on the looping path of life. Lies. Sacred cycles that never break the rhythm that nature set as a course to forever follow a pattern. Autumn’s set foot. Mornings are breezy, nights are cooled by the nonchalant Moon’s stare. The days are stuffed with the last powers of the sun’s rays. Just enough to boil the asphalt, melt the tarmac that holds the tram tracks, cause havoc on the sidewalks and burn the green leaves of innocent plants. Just enough to breathe life into those who need the warmth and just enough to destruct everything that wishes to hide from the cruelty of the rising Celsius. Fight as long as you have the will to keep fighting.

My voice went silent. I lost it or cared not to make it heard for reasons that are mine. I stayed enchanted by the monumental shifts that life produced. Jumping phases, turning corners that held secrets and new ventures that I could hardly walk alone. But alone I must stay and keep enduring, living, loving and making plans just the way I want. There is stillness and silence in the hurricane that has swept across my life. Misplaced and replaced, memories deleted and made, new habits found, old ones forgotten and died. In the stillness there’s light. In the light there is hope. In hope there is a chance to view the changes in my life as the most gracious gifts that fate could ever bestow upon me. It’s just one of those days.

I look to the future for answers. They hide. I’m shy. With a life that’s reminiscent of progress and maturity, with a soul that’s tangled in words someone’s said out loud, so recklessly. I own a lot, but not time. Time could give me the greatest joy, but before I could have that to myself, I need to be bold, need to jump in the cold water, need to grow older with a boy like you. The answers might not even exist if the questions don’t. This makes me restless and what calms me only is the notion that in just a few days I will hear the sounds of heartache. The sombre voice of a lonely a man. The symphony of strings that tell tales of healing the wounds that life deepens, wrinkles that worry causes, memories that time erases. Of this, I can never get enough. Of his sweet voice I can never get enough. Of my new life I can never get enough. Of the hopeful days gleaming ahead I can never get enough. Of love I can never get enough. Of you, I can never get enough. Still I know, that today is just one of those days, just like any of those days that will pass if I crawl underneath my blanket.

The trees on my street.

My walk home is the sweetest journey for the imagination and the tired soul after a demanding and disrespectful day. My street starts where a square ends. A square buzzing with life when the weather allows. Chairs and tables, laughter, friends uniting and lovers hiding in non existent corners of a round urban formation.

This part of the historic Budapest is teeming with names that leave me bowed each time I read. Great many writers, thinkers, inventors. Their names made immortal by attaching a straight piece of this earth to them. Starting with my street:

Krúdy, writer of tales, of endless journeys of a young man in a fantastical universe. This universe being nothing less than his and his writer’s reality.
Mikszáth, standing with his huge belly and respectful moustache, pipe in hand in the middle of the square. He wrote of emotions that hold true for all eternity. He wrote what he saw to be true, no love to cover the evils of man, but with all the love in the world.
Babits, lived in a house on the square. He wrote and was the master of the tangled web of thoughts humans toil forever with. He wrote of temptation and redemption. He warned man to forgive and sewed his words carefully around the fragile idea of the individual possessing all power but emotions taking the better of him ever single time.
Irinyi, inventor of matches, shared this part of the town with these masters of the pen. He brought warmth and light to the endless dark days of winters without blue skies. Those days burned.

Each day I am reminded that the soles of remarkable men of talent decorated the cobbles that I tread lightly on. That whatever is in the present starts somewhere very far back in the past. I am not the first to see the trees of my street. I am not the first to enjoy the quiet bells of the church on my street. The bricks of my room whisper of a former owner, a high ranking priest, a cardinal or bishop who murmured Hail Marys till the morning hours. Or another who spoke of forgiveness but could never forget. Preachers who cloaked in burgundy velvet and hurried down the stairs I walk day in day out to celebrate Mass to those who chose the word of God instead of the word of emperors, the monarchy or politics.

The streets wind and withstand the test of time. They learnt to never shriek when rain taps their backs on a cool autumn night. Living with pride each day that someone great, someone good, someone in love, a child with hope, a lonely soul, a two that just forged, might be walking their backs. They don’t mind the hooves of horses, the tires of cars, the steel of tanks, the plastic of shoes, the bare feet in the summer. They want to lead you to wherever you are aiming to go. In some happy instances they want to be the destination and help you find home on the buildings they boast. There are no tricks up their sleeves.

Today was a joyously hopeful and desperately hopeless Sunday. The two always come hand in hand in my life. A moment of light and then a moment of grey. Shifting and turning until they even out or just argue the whole day. I have little control and have learnt to embrace both emotions with all of me. On days like today, my walk home means more than on hectic days filled with work and worries of another world. On days like today I have time to pay attention to the details of my lovely street. I nod to the square, marvel at the names that cover plaques on almost every single building. The houses run from 1 to 19 on my side. That’s ten. Today my street had a big day. Today my street got some new trees. The square got some lovely fresh flowers that want to grow roots at the feet of Mikszáth. The street was proud and hopeful, vowing to be a good keeper of the new creatures it must nurture. The trees will be happy on my street. They will learn who lived here before them. They will realise that their ancestors were used for Irinyi’s matches, for Babits’ somber poems and they will lift their new leaves towards the church and its bells that ring far and wide to remind all to repent. And that they will. They will repent and forgive, love and breathe oxygen for me and my cohabitants of this lovely street to LIVE.

This is for the new trees on my street. Right now, amidst the doubt and the grey, even breathing feels all right.

My salvation lies in your love.

There’s lightness to forgiveness. An airlyness that sends the soul carelessly floating at the exact moment the words I forgive you plunge from the mouth. These unimpressive collection of letters, anchors that kept the soul bound to the abyss for an eternity, now all of a sudden are freed and with it, the soul roams.

This is how I feel. But an incredible weight still holds me down.

That’s your face, your ways.

There’s a real threat I won’t survive this. I scare myself. I wish for days gone past. I drink to your health and know, so truly know, that all that we have become would never be enough for our two. It would be something doomed to break, like a dry twig, snap. I’m firmly rooted, you’re boundless. I’m greyscale, you’re Technicolor. There’s an ocean of ideas between us and none concern the present. I’m hanging between my greatest fears and dearest hopes.

You’re free, I’m still locked in your memory.
I stay, you leave.
But know that for however long it may take,
my salvation lies in your love that's past and in your love that's present.

waiting for a bearded fella

There are a lot of customs a girl my background and culture must follow in life. The likes of Christmas, Easter, name days spring to mind. But I’ve been given freedom when it comes to celebrating my birthday. Well, almost, provided it’s with family. The where is my choice. The how is my choice. So I’ve come up with a plan a few years back, almost six as I recall, to make a point of writing something for my friends who are close and who are not so much, to take with them on this day that marks my entrance into the world. Mine and many others’, but allow me to take this moment to fulfil every narcissistic desire in my body and gracefully succumb. And please, never think for a moment that I try to fan a wholly unfounded notion of accumulated wisdom over 26 years because even suggesting that would be silly. I am no preacher or knower of truth. I am no giver or selfless saint. I am no example to follow. I just have words. I cleverly borrow words to fit the occasion.

I won’t begin a tale now, I’ve no time or ideas, but I will try to make sense in these coming lines as best I can. What I know about myself and the world would come as no surprise to any of you my learned friends. The realities that I have discovered over the years pale in comparison to the ones I’m yet to find out. You’ve seen them I’m sure. You’ve lived through them I know. But when be hopeful, if not now? When have the courage, if not now? When have the wisdom and the bravery to admit to the broken parts, if not now?

A lot of things are hazy for me right now. I’m half way into finding out what it’s like to have a piece of this world, to claim as my own. What it’s like to work hard for something concrete. To use my experiences not to get fooled by bureaucracy. And it’s hard. Has been hard and will continue to be hard. But I meet these every day challenges with enthusiasm and excitement. I’m slowly also finding out how different I am now to how I was when the people who brought out the best in me were around. But this never scares me, just cautions for a wiser choice next time. I know what it’s like to miss time. I’ve personified time so many occasions in writings that now I think it’s just a good-turned-evil friend of mine from a while back. Someone I used to know well.

But before I trip and fall into the pitfalls of life’s winding and sometimes dark road, I know what I still want. These things drive me to do better and try harder. To think about change, even if implementing them would be somewhat difficult. I know that there are things I can never have and feelings that I will never know. There are places I will visit and there are people I’m yet to meet. I will make friends and I will lose some in the years to come. I will build and destruct with ease. I will forever wish for more love… but time’s tricky with that.

Before I turn a year older, I will just sit here and wait for a bearded fella. He with a heartache and a song to turn even the most desperate of days into a flood of joyful tears. I know that him I will love and I already love the way he gently loves.

Another note.

Far from the blinding lights of happiness comes a clear cry that speaks volumes on a gloomy night, a clearly dark night, on the desperateness of a failed attempt, on a futile effort to gratify the soul with hollow regret. There is time to hide for everyone who feels weak in the knees. Focus the mind on the kind spring awakening and reassure the spirit of a boundless journey through the haphazard maze of time’s fortress. Somehow we will all fly.

My new bag will carry my burden of regret, shame and even indecisiveness. In the meantime I have the chance to delude my susceptible heart into thinking of the imminent change around as the sole cause of an eventual happy ending. Change is not kind. Not to me. Not now. Not yet. Folded arms cannot reach towards the hill of forgiveness. My unwillingness to change much of my situation leaves my senses paralysed and my will helpless, stuck in an innate body and a discommendable mind. Here within lies the challenge. My challenge.

I keep wishing. I let the troubles fall off the tip of my fingers with one hasty shake, escaping the traps of the deep wrinkles of my palms. Let the sun catch them and lift their fragile bodies onto someone new. I know not how to deal with them. To me they are like children with no direction or need for care. The early April breeze keeps my hands clean, blown off it are the simple troubles of a tragic life. A kingdom with no savoury hallucinations, just images of horror that appear kind in the daylight. Smile. Write. Confused words appear and demand to be recorded on paper. The fingers lie disconnected from the mind. Excommunicate.

I need him to love me back. Now. With his sensitive heart and gentle mind. I need to know that we can survive a stormy sea that lies between us. In change I will become more of me. You will have most of me. All most of me.

My gasping soul needs you to give it time to regain its composure and grace before it can leap toward another hopeful wanderer of the night. Hold me close for now since the rain falls, cold brushes against me, dark seduced the light, the hollow shelter frightens me more than it used to comfort. Alone I have no chance to survive, even with the colours that flow from the words I steal from others. My empty cave is damp and sombre, your hand can make it a little less cruel.

I need to keep writing. Writing notes. Not just for now, but until I know I found the one that needs no more writing on the wall. It may be years still or that time may never come. I may need to write countless notes before I can finally write the one that says now I love.

a lighter load

I am uneasy. Things happen around me that make me uneasy, frightened, uncomfortable. I realize that most of the time I do exactly the same with my words. I make the reader feel uneasy, uncomfortable. But deeper do the roots of my despair lie. I feel not the fickle uneasiness of a few well chosen, painfully perfect, sharp letters. Words on paper are just wiggles of lines, succumbed to the writer’s every narcissistic effort. Their truth only shows once the writer has realised their freedom. Rarely does this happen and the reader must never end the quest and the questioning. Why. But this is not what sends me screaming into an empty corner. I fail to understand the simple things, like songs that say goodbye, like a bird almost motionless trying to glide. Love. Death. Life. Disapperance and regret, loneliness. The power that only a moment has. There is no other power like it. There is no power but it.

With every bone in my body, I wish that love can somehow be enough. That it can erect bridges between lost parts of the soul and that it can conquer the undiscovered places of the mind. Every night I pray for the unwanted love to find home. For all loves to finally find home. I ignore instances that present the fact in clear light: love is seldom enough. A teardrop cannot capture the vanity of its existence. Whilst waiting for an imperfect love I forget to calculate the time that passes in loneliness. There’s apprehension and tension, there’s eagerness and enthusiasm, but ultimately all with a bitter end for time all along has been passing mercilessly. And if love can never find the empty heart then all that is left is time gnawing away at the soul. Mercilessly.

I don’t know why some people leave and some stay behind. I don’t understand the moment everything shifts. Life into oblivion. Present into past. Love into prayer. Laughter into tears. Sadness into pain.

The only power I have is the power to whisper sincerely please don’t go.

Sharp enough to teach a lesson, soft enough to never make me bleed. But the world is cruel and cruelly it takes that which is most precious to us. Each other…

I’ve not made amends with time. I cannot forgive its nonchalance and mighty power over all. I stay away as much as I can. I remind myself that I am in awe only when I see seasons changing, when I see progression, when I see change. But I grow fearful when I see the past recorded on paper. When I see the wrinkles on my hands. When I see that those who should be here have been called away. Forever. Time has played many tricks on me, still, I murmur in this peaceful night: I can wait.

the two that broke

I need you to know, this won’t be broken.

I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t think that love was a noble and serious, a worthy being that latches itself susceptibly onto our souls and mars with each day that sees its grip grow fainter. Oblivious to its power but acutely aware of it, no flesh bearing man can survive without the life giving love. But so much more powerful in beauty, the graceful love that descends to build a life and tear it down at the same time brings meaning amidst the chaos, almost every single time.

Mostly just a fragile whisper. The love that I nurture is weak and shy. Even on the sunniest of days it needs my hand to walk tall in this world. Just holding the hand, just shielding the sun’s powerful rays, just boasting with confidence from a keeper so devoted, my love shines. Shines like no other. I am responsible for my love and never do I want to see it hurt. Like a little bird that’s tossed at the wind’s command, my love could not withstand the battering of the harsh outside alone. My job is to keep it safe, hold it sacred until there is someone I can share it with. How perfect spring is to let fly the loves that have been wanting to escape all winter long. Except my love. My love wants to feel the warm haven that I provide a little while longer. And I certainly don’t want to force an angelic being, an innocent deity to be corrupted by the villains the world holds on its back. Planks of wood above the water I walk on so that my love won’t get wet. There are days it fits into my little pocket. Some others it just walks beside me. On Sundays it flies.

The most important thing is to have faith in your love. Whether it’s on loan with a dear another, or whether it’s growing restless in your pocket, you have to believe that it can live on its own. Never shake in your belief that your love will know better. Over the years it will learn and will only come back to you once it’s tried all other options. But you can’t take it for granted, cannot not love it and must never ignore it. A few simple notes will lure it back to you, a melody that is sweet to its ears can hold it captive for a short while. Words that are carefully orchestrated and fan its vanity will chain it down for only a moment. Hurt no other and no other will hurt you. Love your love and it will love you back. But when it breaks, you need to heal it. It has only got you.

My love needs my promise that I will try to bestow it upon a boy who will take good care of it. I have promised, you have my love now. It is new and almost invisible to the naked eye. So small and so vulnerable it needs to hear that you think of no one else but her. That you love no one else but her. That you see no one else but her. Sometimes I think I want my love back, but I am being brave and have sent it to live in you. I fear that you will forget, I fear before I have proof of your negligent ways.

As gentle as a summer breeze this is what you need to whisper to my love: I need you to know, this won’t be broken.

Almost silent, already still

Looking back, to even just a year ago, a day like today would have come more often and with more imminent force. Now, when the days blend into each other and when there’s little else to hold onto then my own desperate self chants of an optimist’s verse, now I stop and think more. But even adjusting to a life that’s comfortable, bland and boring, rings far from what I had imagined for myself. There are only moments that allow an escape and they are only as kind as the seconds they hold. Too few. Too fast.

I wonder if it is just all that simple. Just as simple as sitting down and starting to write. Is that what a novel’s all about? Just a decision from a story teller to begin telling that story? Any story. His story or hers, theirs. Where do I keep going wrong? There will be days when the flood of emotions overwhelm me and leave me uncomfortable in my own skin. I yell a euphoric chant, slash my skin open and wail as I realise that life vividly is trying to use my talentless and semi blocked channels. There’s something awaking in me. Moving and shaping, asking for help to live. Seldom am I alert enough to realise what is happening. Writing is discipline for me. It is order not chaos. It is choice, not fate. It is painful not carefree. It is extra curricular, not a drug I need to live. It is a chore I must do. I must because if I don’t, I feel my existence a burden for society. There is already too much burden to carry, too heavy a load.

Once my body will be completely still, lifeless. My mind may stay intact and my eyes ready to tell my story. Then I will need every one of you to stand there next to me. Hold me together with love, encourage me with smiles and let go of me when I feel I’ve gone too far. I wonder which one of you will stay and which one of you will turn away. Who will read or dance, sing or talk, make me a lullaby? All my true colours will reflect on all your true intentions.

My life’s not crazy, just lonely. My ambitions are not forgotten, just have not been verbalised. My friends not absent, just distant. My love not gone, just captive by someone else. But at the end of a day like this, I feel like my soul’s been shaken by the kick to my stomach. It hurts and I yell. If you hear you could come help because I’ve found that everything works in your arms.