Once there was an emotion

There was an emotion that started all this. Maybe a long time ago, I can’t quite recall, or maybe just a few moments ago. I forget to make note, I just know there was a feeling of wanting more out of life that lead me to words. I know that I wanted to see the dark and the light, the ugly and the shining, the dirty and the clear of this life. If there was something graspable, something that I knew I wanted to hang onto, then that’s the emotion that has lead me here. Because there is so much crap, too much crap all around. We kick the empty can on the street and have become too accustomed to the derelict sights of the inner cities to ever notice the gap that is coming between us.

When nobody cares is when all things fall apart. When those who could make a change choose to live for the now is when small things show cracks in the ceiling. When I feel I have become powerless and indifferent by the challenges of this world is when I feel I need to remind myself of the most essential emotion that lead me to begin writing all those years ago. Because once the words had found me, I could only succumb. Their power, much greater than the power I can ever comprehend. And the Truth sometimes surfaces in the most hidden lines of my writing, without me knowing, surprising the unsuspecting reader with a phrase that will stick and will haunt until it has the power.

On a hot day I will sit with my skin bare, listening to the simplest magic of a few words and a few musical notes and I will be inspired to cut through the fog and haze and reach deep down for that hidden emotion that started everything. As long as I can find that and through that justify what it means to be a writer without anything to write or a lover without anyone to love, then I can safely create that dream without anyone ever knowing the truth.

Let’s take a bow together and vow that from now on the emotion that has kept us captive will continue to inspire, on even the dullest and most hopeless of days.

Potpourri

If ever you were wondering how hard it would be to slowly dance across a burning room, then you wondered enough about the pointless allegories of life. For life, a mere mirage of ideals and dreams, a recluse for those who believe that there can be such a thing as the realisation of morbid, unearthly, irreplaceable, unattainable goals: a fortress of unsavoury hopes and adorations. Then you find out that there is little more than a year left. Or maybe that year will soon be reduced to a sum of only a few of its months. Perspective changes with each hour passing. There is no more need for courtesy or regret. This is happening to me, to someone close; to someone I should feel close to. But even if it happens to the most irrelevant person, that hymn should not be forgotten solely for the reasons of irrelevancy.

For forty years I have lived a loveless life, without meaning or tenderness. Save, just save a lovely minute of your time for me. I will promise to cherish that dear moment for all eternity. For now I know what time means. You, the beholder of eternity, and me, and how no other can threaten the sovereignty of the magnificent dream. Even if you appear in a glowing white robe, just a silhouette on the distant horizon, I will hold you close to my heart and whisper words like love. You may see the purest of emotions appear on my tired face. The bones sharp and brittle, old and used through the wondrous years of an elusive life. But as of yet, I have not had a chance to weep.

And this, this is a one page poem with no rhyme or structure other than strands of thoughts that run through my mind. But there was an emotion that started this non-poem, started everything. I clearly recall how helpless I felt, how frustrated and how useless. How wondrous I thought the journey home was. How easy it was to love and how painfully difficult it was to be loved. Reciprocity lost interest, a long time ago. And with that, no story got ever fully told.

Who could dispute the obvious? He says there is no way that I can compete with the other woman. So I draw stick figures in the sand, on the paper and imagine my life in only two dimensions. There is the dimension of me and the dimension of what I imagine to be. But I stay earnest in my efforts to convince myself that alone is what leaves me thriving, happy, inspired. Let’s leave tonight with the hard earned conviction that what’s ahead is something to look forward to and what’s behind is nothing but an empty collection of minutes deemed significant. I may even find someone who will make me enter the world of three dimensions.

What's up?

Please don't ask me that. When you raise your pen and gently roll its tip on the paper and circle the line "what's up?", then that's a question that needs to be answered. But my reply would be lost among the many hopeless hearts, aimlessly wandering in the dark night. So I keep it to myself, better to just whisper it when nobody can hear. "I'm doing all right, just confused sometimes."

There are lots of good plants growing, blooming, oozing their balsamic scents, sweetening the air around them. They are picked one by one. Torn from their stems, from the branches. They happily fall into the sack, then lay spread out on the canvas, waiting to be cut into exact pieces. They will dry and give their power from nature to someone who waits instant remedy. "We're herbs" and they're proudly singing with the birds. We're waiting for the hands to pick us from this tree. We want to travel in the sack, we want to be spread on the canvas, to be dried by the warm air of the attic and stay still in the cup and let the water dissolve all the goodness. We want to bring relief. I know.

"How has your day been?", but we used to walk past each other every single day. You remember what I have erased from my memory because it seemed unimportant. Now I'm faced with you and having to explain where you've disappeared to. I'm sorry, it all seemed too unimportant to record. Maybe if I had kept my eyes more open. Maybe if when I was 13 I could have been 25. Real importance rarely finds me in the now and regret travels much the same road as realisation does with me. If I was to write a poem, your name would be its title. Can that make up for the lost time? A piece of me has been lost to the endless history of childhood.

The story tells of a card that has traveled the world twice. It saw very little apart from the back of another card which read:
From
Mrs Jill Willows
34 Cone Drive
Surrough
OL2 6YF
Only when the light broke through the seams of the Royal Mail bag could the card read the exact address. It never learnt where that other card was heading. It was happy traveling by its side, in silence, in oblivion to when their journey together would end. That was a secret in their relationship neither felt needed to know. They lived for the now and knew that they were moving closer to their destination with every black second gone. The card felt proud of its poppies, bending in the wind on its front. Nobody but the recipient would see that. This made the card feel special, unmoved by the futility of its journey through the busy streets of the suburbs back to where it was posted from. It wanted its sender to quickly lick those naughty little stamps and affix them to its free corner so it could start its journey anew. "I'M TRAVELING THE WORLD" and with that enormous shout it fell into the bottom of yet another grey Royal Mail bag. It never stopped until it came home. My hands ripped the envelope and marvelled at the poppies on its front. It's home now, it arrived from home and traveled the world twice to see its brand new home.

25

One of those virtual greeting cards with a page long insert which gets you up to speed on the sender's life.

Lately I've been much confused, worried, even scared at the prospect - or lack thereof - I may be faced with. Most of you know what I'm talking about, since not a phone call or an email goes by in which I don't voice these concerns of mine. Some of you say I should travel, see things my way, shake myself up a little. Some others point out how it's not all that bad and compared to most of my contemporaries, I'm in fact doing very well. There are the ones who see no problem at all and still more who have nothing but empathy towards my failed attempts at trying to relocate myself physically and psychologically. But I fear to admit that the problem, my troubles, may prove to be buried deeper than I cared initially to show. The dark may even become darker, the fog denser, my Sun may be blotted out leaving only a golden trail.

25. I never imagined anything for when I'd become 25. I don't really want to imagine anything for when I turn 35. Those ten years will whizz by sooner than I will care to admit. I remember my 15th birthday very clearly. It was in Prague, I got a green top with little flowers on it, dungarees shorts and a back pack. My mom's aunt was visiting and I had very few problems. Ten years have passed and I still have very few problems, but only because I've learnt how to deal with most of the things life threw at me. So the few problems I do have, they seem to hit the core of my existence. But there is a mature weight to this age. There is wisdom in traces, there is solid and honest sincerity and there is doubt to unravel the slowly meandering certainty. I don't know if I'm heading in the right direction, I don't know if my private life is running its predestined course or if my professional life holds any surprises. In fact, there is very little I know. I have started to settle for content when I should scratch and burn until I find happy. I have become lazy and complacent. I have entered a state of mind where moments present the only alternative to a numb void.

What is most worrying is that I have lost inspiration and a desire to create. When all else failed, I always had the words. Now the words seem to not care at all, not care enough. I leave them dormant at the depth of my soul's despair and with that, hope never surfaces either. They dine down there, together, silent. I toil up here, I sweat with fear of actions never taken or taken in vain. But the words stay unconcerned and even the music doesn't move them any more. They have slowly given up on me because I never let them shine. I have never given them the chance to bask in glory. I have never fought for them or fanned their vanity with careless hope. So they have turned from me, these conspiring little wiggles, lines, straight and bent. Now I'm on my own and on my own is where my road divides. And look at me, instead of choosing, I stand still.

I feel powerless, unable to hold a firm grip, unmoved, uninspired, weak, irresolute. I feel like I have no patience or determination to see anything through. I care so little that my days follow one another and nothing ever makes me fight or believe. I skim the surface. The books I read leave ideas unformed. The scenery that is all around me brings only momentary satisfaction. But the power to change lies in my hands and I fail to make progress. Continuous rejection has left me with little desire to run at full speed. I see my tired little life lean towards the comfortable and unchallening future. But my tearless crying shows me that this should not be where I end. Right now, things are bleak. I have no idea which direction to start walking in. I am scared of the unknown and scared to leave the known. I find myself in a trap and nobody has walked past who knew how to get out of the hole. And I have no elaborate plans.

So 25. Please don't ask me to list my successes. Tomorrow morning, on my birthday, I will wake up, it'll be a magnificent spring day, full of the Sun's hopeful rays spreading over the lands. I know that I will wake with confidence, with hope. I will walk amongst the buildings of the greatest historical importance. I will fall in love with this city all over again, as I did last spring. I will see the Danube wash its banks slowly and seamlessly away. The bridge will hold no secrets and the seagulls will circle around the part of the river where the ships have not moved. For a moment, for maybe even the better part of the day, all the doubts, the uncertainty, it will all be forgot.

Now everything around me is perfect, I see it as perfect, only I have not found my perfect, my endless, my humble way.

Home – from where once removed

“Come, sit here” he said, “little girl, look” pointing to the dark window, “this is the journey that you have once taken, that have lead you to where you are now. So sit patently and watch closely!” The man with kind eyes showed the smiley and unsuspecting girl to her seat on the empty train. She had embarked without knowing where the train would go or who she would encounter whilst on it. The magnificent engine just pulled out of nowhere, in her room, golden and red, inviting her with a curious murmur to take a look inside. The girl was standing on the steps, with her nightgown touching the floor, when the man reached for her hand from the top. Now she sat comfortably and was ready for what would be unveiled before her eyes.

They whizzed by hills and rivers, buildings of all sizes, houses empty and filled with love. There were bridges and pastures, chapels and cathedrals, slanted chimneys and solar panels. The brave moon was shining, lending light to the magnificent display of places once seen, free, and places would be in the future. The girl chuckled as the train hit a curve, the man sat beside her and pointed to each significant sight, adding his own commentary to the journey. Slowly each building became familiar to her. She pressed her nose against the window, breathing heavily, covering the view with steam along with every breath exhaled. The outside seemed cold, icy, but radiant from the early rays of the spring young sun.

Then she recognised the Vltava hurling towards the south right below their train. “This is how you can see the truth” said he who was still sitting beside her, towering over her like the most fail proof protection. The bridge that bore the name of Charles then took them from one familiar site to the other. The tracks of the trams were used to fly their train around and around the city. Inside the old town, outside the new town. Suddenly she saw what had once been. She saw her endless journeys from one end of the city to the other. She saw seasons change the scenery and her in them. She saw herself struggling with teenage idealism. Korunovacni. Parzizska. Vysocanska. Sokolovska. Suchdol. V Udoli. The people paraded onwards and the tears were streaming down her innocent cheeks. She saw her past and she saw the future and all at once she was in the past and in the present. “Don’t worry, you won’t be alone” he then placed his arm around the little girl. But there was nobody else on the streets with her. Nobody to sit beside her on a lonely, rainy day somewhere on Wenceslas square. But somehow the past had seemed joyful. She saw days filled with hope, places filled with dreams, herself as a lover filled with love. The all too familiar routes she took from places unimportant to home. Quietening warmth ran through her body as she watched the weightless snow fall to the road, free of asphalt, just outside the forest, her forest. Every memory then soon followed and she stared out the window hoping to catch a glimpse of every scene enacted in the past, in real time, in the future. She felt herself free, happy. She also felt her heart ache from the void of love. She felt her stomach tighten into a knot when she could feel the end near, when she could see that once she would forget what it all felt like. Dread came over her as she faced feeling like a stranger in her own town. “Have to learn to love the flawed” said the man. She knew that what he had meant was that life was flawed and nothing in the present could change the past. The past remains as flawless as we dream it to be. The present stays as flawed as we can bear it to be. The future is too close to place distance between things done and consequences not yet mature.

The lights of the city grew ever smaller. She was ready to get off, to change the past, to live the once had, but he was firm in holding her hand. “Here comes the next one soon, just sit tight and you’ll see it will all be all right”.

1848, then now

The Sun is gently setting on the day. The golden rays flicker on the rooftops, the rusty antennas, the wind battered chimneys. The streets channel the attention towards the wide avenues, lined with flags obstinately waving in pride. People flock to sites history has deemed with relevance. Cars stay away; the hum of the city quietens. The silent chants for freedom make people walk upright, more so than on any other given day. The country becomes melodies and rhythms, verses and shapes: a heartbeat.

Budapest, a city gleaming with history. Pick a street, any street, and stand quietly, motionless in the middle. Allow the buildings to ooze their stories, to penetrate your skin, to fill up your soul. Pay attention to their wounds, respect their age. Bow before you move away, for the scent of history, the whiff of unrecorded privilege: you are now a bearer of. Here is a city that I watch in awe, amazed at its wisdom and patience. The cobble held the Hapsburg carriages, the revolutionaries’ horses, the boots of armies marching in, the steel of tanks, the blood that was shed, the shoes with holes, the tyres of cars.

I see what you see. The dirt and the neglect. The homeless, the ones who are cast out. The not so craftily veiled contempt of a shop owner, post office worker, and civil servant as a task is pushed in front of them. The reluctance to sacrifice for the greater good. The greyish colour of the Danube, infected with litter. The hopelessness in the eyes of people whose lives have been broken twice in half a century. The pensioners who have toiled to build a prosperous country, only to spend their remaining days suffering. The incompetence, everywhere. The lack of smiles. The shortcomings, the backwardness, the sometimes false pride of my people.

Do you see what I see? I see immense beauty. I see women and men with an avid desire for change. I see a nation that’s holding its head above the tempestuous waters of a malleable democracy. I see a country making mistakes, tripping on its own shoelaces, bringing with it a naïve, charming sense of hope. Its people are proud, they understand the sacrifices, the consequences. They will work to secure a better future for their children. I see a nation whose people for many generations were broken, crippled under the tyranny of lies and deceit. I see a recuperating society, willing to take on tasks almost beyond its capabilities. I see the citizens of this country as individuals with an ardent aspiration for more.

We have fought for our freedom countless times throughout history. I am a proud Hungarian, well versed in the problems a citizen of this country faces today. But I refuse to give up on my principles, on this land, on my people. Our history is rich, our endurance knows no limits, our hopes no invader has been able to crush. Our politicians we have picked, their mistakes we are carrying on our backs. Our anger grows fiercer with each carefully misplaced step. But look how well these people, my people, have endured. They know how to use their democratic power to demonstrate, with the force of thought, in peace. Look how proud they are of the land they call their own. Look how beautiful the sunset is over the hills of Buda.

The Danube peacefully rubs the shores of first Pest and then of Buda. Same as then, same as now.

Curing the soul

I don’t know which is harder, being dragged through the unbearable layers of a black hell, or sitting on the sidelines watching helplessly. Lying or being lied to. Living in a world of deception where the façade is voluntarily man made, or waking up to the reality of a pretended world. Holding a glass or reaching for it. I don’t know which is harder to understand, having sense of the destruction or causing the disappearance of mind and soul.

On any given day, we may stand or we may fall. There is no telling who is next and there is no telling who can stand. Once the sadness is so deep that no tears will fall then the soul will merge with the body and give up its fight. The outside and inside will separate and the sick part will watch the ailing part disintegrate into oblivion. The substance will shrink and leave a hollow shell. The mimicry will only be a result of involuntary muscle contraction, yet it will disperse any doubt cast over its authenticity. Can the sun help?

Rilke, Van Gogh, Beethoven, Rothko, Tennessee Williams, the guy you knew in school, the friend of a friend, the actual friend: all whose souls have succumbed to that insatiable hole. The desperate well to where creativity drives the critically genius and the ordinary: there is no distinction. Going down to the sound of the most pleasant verse cannot glorify the tumble. Bowing out with a last stroke on the canvas cannot make the exit glitter. Yet they try.

The example of one cannot be the rule for many. The testament of a soul that had been cured by physically removing parts of the body cannot become a rule, merely an anomaly. There’s a more profound quest for those who watch their souls drown in the sea of their painful existence. But the sight of victory brings greater displeasure and there is no telling when the outside will mould to the inside. Fear and pain keeps us on our toes because this formidable dark cannot be a force that overwrites things previously established.

I don’t know which is harder, being dragged through the unbearable layers of a black hell, or sitting on the sidelines watching helplessly.

They Float Through The Air With The Greatest Of Ease

Her songs that is. Her new songs. Patty Griffin’s new album. I know I talk about this all the time, but if in the years to come I am to ever have the determination and courage to create anything, I would wish to bring to my audience what Patty Griffin’s songs mean to me. The same level of intimacy, of excitement, of endearment. How can her songs mean the same thing to someone else they mean to me? These words I feel speak only to me, that what she describes and wraps in music can only touch my heart so abundantly. She sings of loneliness, of yearning, of hope and then of hopelessness. She strums the chords along to her coming undone. There is harmony is desperation. How can so much talent fit into her wooden box?

Her stories propel me onto a path of self discovery. I am more me because of what she sings. I am encouraged to sit here and type, to write down my deepest and darkest secrets, to admit to the loneliness creeping, to face the lovelessness haunting, to tackle the desperation that lurks at each end of the day. One carefully placed perfect word shakes me to my core. Beyond belief I let myself be sucked in by the mystical tales of another woman from another country, a different world, a much wiser and more talented dream. It would seem pointless to disobey or even disregard. Let the voice wrap my fears around me from the outside, make them more visible than ever. Let me see where I fall short of the glory. I might learn to make myself better and stronger, so much more willing to admit to defeat and insignificance. Compared to such talent, I am a mere impostor. I need to let humility take lead.

My world would be less if I did not know the magnificent art of Patty Griffin. I would be less and there would have been many writings unwritten, stuck at the bottom of me were it not for the tender words of Patty Griffin. Because she lets you come undone, to fall to a million pieces whilst you listen to her fragile songs. She will lay you down, prepare a resting place so magical, so soft, that you slowly rest your weary body into that cushioned haven. Then just before you close your eyes to velvet slumber, she will wake the dormant spirit in you. She will sing with all her might so you catch your breath and hold your head in growing strength. She will not stop till you are standing on your own two feet. Ready to meet the vice, the unforgiving reality that now can be endured just because you are armed with the most tender Patty songs.

Then you see that there is power in frailty.
Such power.
Endless strength in honesty.
Such glowing strength.
Passion in admittance.
Such withstanding passion.
Then you see that there is love in every broken moment.
Such unparalleled love for one another.

Then you will see that what we are, are just simple outlines of lives lived once before. And then you will see that every part is a part of truth.

I have to learn

And so today and from now on I have to learn to write better. I have to take my stories and give them a start, give them a middle, give them an end. Sprinkling the words onto the page, carelessly, will not do any more. If my dearest cannot understand, then I can surely never expect my foes to heed. I want to feel close to my words and I want to make sure that I am able to tame them. I will give them a regime of exercise so they line up, the ones that begin in the beginning and the ones that I want to use at the end go to the end. I may lack power in many areas of life, but with confidence I can see this will work. For a writer, writing is never this complex; it’s never dissected to these depths. Phoneys like me must learn to make friends with the words first. Phoneys like me have to beg these letters to obey just for a half hour.
Then I am met with doubt, for when my words are plain, I feel distraught. If I feel exposed, I will feel vulnerable and weak, little and insignificant, I will see the real me and it will confuse me. Maybe I’ve just watched too much Sex and the City for one night. I need this place, this forum, the outlet, to not be real so I don’t have to face the reality of my existence. For at least with these short writings, I am able to transcend to another life, another person’s life. When I’m me, when it’s late and I am alone, I break into millions of pieces and hardly have the power to squeeze a drop of superglue out of the tube to fix myself. But I do because I cannot stay broken. These words hide me. They burry me. They wrap me soft so I don’t feel the harsh wind, the bitter cold that’s so imminent.
What I write then gets twisted and sees layers upon layers until it’s so bogus even I can’t relate. I mix a word with a thought with a colour with a feeling and expect nothing but appraisal. Simple is true and I wish I could write simple. But even if I was a writer, I’d have to trample across an insane amount of complexity just to realise the beauty in simplicity. I realise the beauty, I long for it, but I most probably will never attain it. Fears laid down on paper somehow seem a thousand times worse than if they are hidden in a cocoon of mystical phrases. And I’m good at that. I’m good at making fog when it’s a clear blue sky. That’s why I have a humidifier that’s blowing out cold vapour. I’m making my life hazy so that everything that makes me nervous is covered. Because when I’m alone, when it’s dark and there’s nothing else but the music, the moon, the humidifier, the heater making crackling sounds, the lonely guitar waiting to be strummed, the open book waiting to be picked up, the three channels on my shoebox sized television, then I catch a moment of truth. That moment chains me to the floor or sofa or chair. The pain from inside of me reaches up and up and escapes through my eyes, if I’m lucky, the tears stream down. That moment throws me into a well that I see no way out of. Those are the times when I take my machine of words and start typing as fast as I can to make the lucid dream disappear.
Because the reality is that I am alone. I’m afraid of holding on to the past and I am petrified of the emptiness that the future may hold. I come undone when the prospect of a useless life flashes itself before my eyes. I realise that life is a circle. Everyone is just a part of the system, taking a place in the grand scheme of things, setting foot within the revolving doors. The Farris wheel. The hamster cage. Join the club! Get married, have children, have a career, retire, die. If I think there is no point, will I stay unhappy? I know that it’s all good and well for me to say now that I want nothing but to be alone, that this is the most comfortable for me, but in ten years time, I will look around and I will not see anyone. All who matter now will have whizzed on without me and I will be left lonely. Confidence? It’s never been a friend of mine. Hope? Oh, there’s always hope, but I tend to think not for me. If I am lonely now and if this is something I enjoy, then this will never change. I am the problem. I tell myself I need to be loved, but then this sends me on an even lonelier quest for fulfilment. What do I have to offer to the world? And is it justified to be existing on this planet in vain?
Love might make sense, but the kind of love I know is buried somewhere deep in the past and I have only just learnt to leave it in its place, in peace. This is why I have never been more scared to take a trip back to that place where it all started. What if I find my heart that I left there so long ago? Is it wrong to always look for the kind of love that touched me the first time? Am I not willing to compromise? Because after I have admitted that I am lonely and after I have admitted that I am unhappy, I still would never dare to hope for a change in things.
It’s comforting to know that there’s a surface and that the raw, the wounded flesh doesn’t stare out to every passer by.

So here. These were uncomplicated words. Untwisted sentences. This was clear talking. From me to you.

I really have to learn to be a better writer.

Photographs

Sometimes it gets really hard just to hold on. To maintain some sort of motivation and not let everything be bogged down by the crude, blemished, disease ridden reality. Shutting out the screaming voices that bounce off your eardrums, always. Shutting out the murmurs and constant drone in the favour of your favourite tune blasting through your headphones. Could those dear songs make forget that life sometimes like a mirage shows false versions of the truth? Defeatism, such a much used word, so powerful on its own, so deadly in its letters, so empty when it stands in the middle of a sentence. These pictures in your head, can you ever be brave enough to show them to me? You say you photograph the insides, that each word is a pixel of another’s soul, mood, emotion. You openly and at the same time secretly dread the idea that you forgot to tell people what you photograph. They tell you, they can’t see. Endless hours turn into fickle traces of burnt paper, dead with just one finger pressing against the other. You say your work is never done. Are we done?

The toil over each sentence, like the discarded clothesline that some foolish geese believed lead to a magical ending, pulls the scent of motivation from her guts, out, out, out. But she is alive and she knows not because her finger bleeds or because she breathes, but because she feels lonely and empty, she feels a deep yearning, a churning of emotions not in her heart but her stomach where no amount of indecency can ever live again. She knows she is alive when she sits crumpled up next to the bathtub, waiting for the water to cover the room so she can float. She knows she is alive when the bread that she tears a piece from never leaves the table but still dances laps around her plate. Where is her home? Who is her home?

You think it all can be undone with one word. When mountains are moved on the inside, when water and cliffs clash and the weak stone leaves itself bare open to the carving and bruising and bullying and finally gives another of its piece to the fearsome ocean. When the fall is met with a cushioned haven that wraps its kind glance like bubble wrap around the unsuspecting fallen victim. She has been building a nest, brought ornaments from far and wide, lined the inside with rose coloured broken images of melodies once sewn to her skin. The seams came undone and she laid them one by one, patch for patch, on top of the branches and their lovely shoots. When the music plays, she paints melodies and imagines paintings of a million colours. She will pick at the thread, she will pick at it at the seams. She will use words to sculpt her broken body and tightened stomach. To make nothing. To live in a dream.

In the end it can be a heavenly day or just another useless collection of empty hours. And now, have you seen a photograph above of a sensation you know you once felt? Read slow. Read again. Has that image been really recorded? I. I try to play with the exposure, the focal length, the colour temperature, the iris and the depth of field. Sometimes it’s a collage. Some other times, it’s a clear picture of a moment that you know to have passed. I’m no longer angry at these words above. I understand that some subjects present themselves hazy even to the best photographer.

My head bowed down…

Somewhere deep and unexpected there is tenderness in letting go. The roots, one by one, snap as the once living is torn and moved to places more plenteous than before. The moss serves as a resting pillow for the tired head. Leaves and meanders embrace the weary body that gently succumbs to the call of the earthy ground. With a silent hush, all that held on tight must release the grip and let the winter wonders take the lead. Snowdrops breathe fresh droplets of dew into the resting eyes of the beholder. Lilacs and honeysuckles lie buried under the solemn turf, but come springtime they will fondly fiddle with the beauty resting amongst them and cover the dreams with yellow and lilac powders of magic. Just wait and they will appear.

Useless feet have now been replaced with eternal wings. Unbearable pain has been speared by everlasting love. Comfort of the old and the wholly unforeseen entwine as they guide the soul through the gigantic doors of Heaven. One glance at a time. The filthy and corrupt, the evil and careless, the lies like balls of dirt rolling on the street, are erased from the imminent memory. Glowing is the way ahead. The beauty far outweighs the dread. His steps now float: far from the memory of falling, of breaking to pieces, of unwillingly withering away.

Sit here and promise me it will never be like this again. Whisper in my ear that you know something more beautiful awaits. Stroke my snow-white hair, carelessly resting on the pillow and smile with your eyes so I know that you will travel with me. I fear to go alone. I fear to go alone without you. But how can this magnificent place, this kingdom of friends past reunited, this everlasting beam of radiant hope, be anything than reassuringly reminiscent of home? Speak in endless words, for now is when time stands still. The palms of both hands now young and pink are turning steady towards the warmth. We have been waiting for you.

The lamp is burning low, the snow is softly falling. The chains are broken, pain no longer rules. The body, the heavy and burdensome, now roams as the shackles have been rid, yielding to unimaginable freedom. The Sun warms the lovely cheeks; the stars keep the memories sweet. Think of us when you sing. Think of us when you dream.

Farewell dear one, may your journey be safe…

Gentle January

As alarming and irreversible as the phenomenon of global warming may be, undoubtedly there is something subversive about the irregular temperature patterns manifesting these days. Indescribably, an almost naughty and mischievous notion, that the Sun can have such unparalleled freedom to roam this part of the globe this time of the year. The forbidden fruit has indeed been touched. So as concerned and weary as we all are of the changes that present nothing positive for our future, we still stand by the freakish weather and hail it as more pleasant than bitter frost or flaky droplets of water. And what can winter bring that we have not already seen anyway?

This current state of weather has become yet another thing that I don’t understand in this life. Like how I find it hard to understand Bulgakov. Would I ever make a deal with Satan? If I loved another or if I loved the creation enough, would that drive me to such extents as selling my soul? I also find it hard to decipher Milton. What good is freedom of choice when there’s really no choice at all? Still, I shred the words of these and many other great masters, literary giants, in the hope that some of their knowledge and wisdom and sensitivity about the world will clench onto my susceptible brain. If not - this of course remains to be seen luckily so I don’t have to confront the harsh reality just yet – then I’ve spent much time reading pages which have seldom made sense to me. Is it enough to feel what the author is writing about? To glide over the actual words and skip to the part where all that remains is certainty about the tone, the mood, the spirit?

However cruel or abstract life is, it’s worth talking about the points which unsettle us all. Or about the parts that make universal sense. Or things that never make sense to anyone else but you. But me. The sun and the moon, the wind and the clouds come to play their lovely hand, leaving us all gasping with fright, foreseeing the disasters that our children will have to bear. Disasters which might wipe every living thing off this planet. Then Bulgakov won’t matter and the archaic verse of Milton won’t matter. I won’t matter and my confession of not understanding these literary classics won’t matter. But until then, I feel I have a moral and intellectual obligation to at least attempt to come to terms with the despairing human character that unveils itself on pages of books, on streets, in front of my very eyes.

This month is no different to any other. An unexpected song starts playing and it whisks me back to countries and to secretly kept years. To feelings and friends who I never had but still somehow forgot. This winter so far may have been gentle but its poison is odourless and colourless. The still river may reflect the towering bridge above it on a clear sunny morning, but in reprise the day will come and it will show no mercy. I see no real reason or cause to plan.

The present is all we have, this mild and unusual winter month. Onto bigger chunks of literature that will lead me into more confusion, sinking every ambition I may ever have to deeper ground. Seeing a better version of ourselves in the eyes of the one who says real love is always enough. Seeing nothing but a blur when it comes to the road ahead. Hoping that the hazy, opal reflection will be taken far, far away. Then comes the end, swiftly and silently like always, like always.

I’m learning to love these words fully

As if it was some heavy duty physical work, I roll my sleeves up and sit with abdominal muscles tight, waiting on an idea. I can hear the mischievous, mocking laughter. I can hear in the distance a tone that aims to discourage at all possible angles. I throw my toxin ridden body between the timid frailty of the unspoken words hiding in the dark and the power which aims to sweep across the mind the size of a continent. I try to hold back the centrifugal force to let the shy sincere thought venture outwards from within. The ability to tame the magnificent and nurture the weak is a task set before hardly pardoning the coy.

I know these things should be heard. Ringing clear everywhere but in my head, I still try to carefully choose every instant to have meaning. But the burden, I wish for only a beautiful man to see. Please let me try one more time. With almost unblemished certainty I can say that I know now where I went wrong. I know why you never enjoyed the words that laid themselves bare in front of you. Would you be more comfortable with simpler ideas? Allow me to untie the knots that appear in every paragraph. Stand firm so the muddled confusion does not turn your attention towards the chaos but rather more vigorously attains the notion inside you that reading is eventually beneficial. Pay no heed to words that are used as calligraphy to decorate the page. They make lustrous figures surface whilst covering the void of an idea.

Tonight, I can see the stars. Not a well lit sky, but enough to spot Jupiter or Mars. But I understand if you would rather not be reminded tonight of the vulnerability, the uncanny disarray that shows itself evident. I rest my useless pen for the night. I will try to shine less light on me and withdraw towards the back. I will try to build a pedestal for words which will celebrate ideas and not one failing creator’s excessive need to bask in unwilling glory. I may succeed. I may even succeed.

I’m learning to love these words fully.

What’s One More Time?

And when I say these things, I show my truest self for you. For you to be able to see. Almost like an open letter, this is for you, Friend. Parts of you will be hiding in these lines somewhere, hiding from the blinding lights that illuminate my soul. I will try to protect you, but you must know just how much it hurts me to not see you.

For what’s a girl if she’s all alone? There’s only a handful of guarding angels around me and I managed to lose sight of you. Giving you up to the world, for the greater good, is something I can learn to live with, but it’s almost like a struggle each day. You hold all four corners of the world safe from the ludicrous and evil haunting. At one point you knew me as the girl who lived so close, in your heart, in your street. Now you’re stationed so far from me it’s sometimes hard to understand. What happens when I need you so close I can’t stop the tears from arriving? Who will know what hurts for me when I hardly speak a word? There’s so much want in my heart, longing to be just a little nearer. Distance is not the culprit, I cannot make him sole bearer of blame, but I feel him robbing friends from me and leaving me with sad lonely nights like these.

When I picture a day, long from today, ahead in time, somewhere on the horizon, I see you there with me. Perfect in all ways, dancing and laughing madly about the silly memories that tie an invisible rope between you and me. Tangled we’d lie in the tall grass, sharing the paths that have lead us to each other. Reaching out, I might be even able to touch the moment before it dissolves under the unknown sky. Just thinking of that day, the burden lessens and I breathe a little easier, waiting with all my might to exhale.

I wish I could say that fear never paralyses me, but with most certainty I can demonstrate it is the one single thing that does. Fear of never being good enough. Fear of never doing enough. Fear of losing, leaving, faking, lying, dying. Fear of meeting you and then having to spend decades or lifetimes without you. Fear of having to find friends to replace you. Because you are holding a part of me that I have entrusted in your care. I only asked – keep that part of you sincere, innocent, raw, and ready to dream. I will come back for me. I will be back for you. When the fear of not having a boy to love, not knowing whose name to call, when loneliness like a black shadow overcomes, you will be the one I run to. Then you will have to turn in the self you’ve been keeping safe for me. Will you be able to do that for me?

I miss you: all of you. You’re my army of strength, my tower of virtue, my only proof that some of my choices have led me to find magic. Day after day I am reminded that love is never enough, but with you in my life I even dare to believe that love can take a backseat if the ropes that connect us are securely tied at all our ends.

Just promise me you’ll never stray too far from me. Tell me that the rain you see will fall on my head one day. Tell me it’s not too long before I see you. Tell me again, what’s one more time?

Before Christmas

It’s supposed to start snowing right about now. When I wake up, the white blanket of soft water should cover all the earthy and vulgar that tread under my feet on my morning stroll to work. Snow’s late this year, forgot to descend, was probably busy filling the world’s reservoirs and flood plains somewhere far away. It’s at least cold here. Is it cold where you are? I can imagine a brownish, greyish, blackish Christmas, but not a sunny, yellow, changeless Christmas. It’s most definitely just a case of what you grew up with and therefore denote as normal. Snow covered whiteness is normal for me at Christmas. Bitter cold is normal for me at Christmas. Frozen sidewalks and bus stops are normal for me at Christmas. Angels, Jesus, glitter, lights, smells of freshly cut pine trees, coats oozing the distinct odour of naphthalene balls: these things are normal for me at Christmas. A sense of peace and happiness are what feel normal to me at Christmas.

Can you remember the last time you noticed a perfect ending to an almost perfect day? Of course perfection isn’t always the answer, but near perfect is attainable and through that, near happy must linger somewhere low enough to be reached. It must. Just before Christmas people turn a little crazy. They give themselves a doze of intolerance and hate towards each other, but we should try and look beyond that, or forgive their trespassing, because after all, this whole malarkey around at the moment is meant solely to celebrate the abundant love: the bond that is between us humans, the real answer to every question of doubt ever raised over our existence. It’s as simple as that: love.

Just before Christmas I wish I could take you with me all the way to New York City. Even if the past means nothing anymore, somehow travelling in an almost unnoticed sky brings us all closer to who we are. Maybe we could use this to let our best selves shine. Buying into the spirit of the holidays a little, maybe we could let the mirror reflect the selfless, loving, endearing parts of ourselves. However hard it is, maybe it's worth a try.

I hope that when I wake up it will be white outside. I hope the huge snowflakes can make people forget the dirty deeds of their souls. By the time the snow arrives, I’d like a clean slate, something liberating, and something meaningful in these dull days. By the time the snow arrives, I want it to be Christmas.

My Very Own Press On Tattoo

In this snowless winter, I walk the streets of this magnificent city and feel my legs go numb from the cold, my eyes water from the wind, my hands sweat from the warmth in my pocket, my mind wandering freely as if it was a summer breeze. The huge boat that hurries down the river, splitting the surface, creating waves, turning over the white side of the water, makes the mossy river look warm. The wind throws me off balance as I stumble over the bridge and I feel a bizarre desire to jump into the seemingly lukewarm water as if it was a scorching summer day.

In my apartment, sheltered from the wind and the cold, I sit unprotected from the fragile thoughts of others. Words that pierce through me, having just left the lips of another tangled soul. Someone far away. Then everything I want to be magnifies and there’s a sudden rush of ambitions, of self-confidence, of fearlessness. Before I move my hands back towards my chest to cover my heart, I embrace the invisible frailty and beauty, hoping that one day they will accompany me as visible friends on my long and wearisome journey.

With each day passing I try to make peace with the fact that I may never be loved the way I wish. If I cannot learn to wear all of me on the sleeve of my warm winter coat, I grow cold with fear that there may never be anyone to see me. I shyly and timidly try to uncover parts of my soul with each word I choose to sit on a page. Protected and wrapped I hand them over to you. If you’re careful enough, you will uncover the thoughts that have not been tempered with, that have not been disgraced, that sit guarding their brothers and sisters who have not left my fingers yet. They’re held together with the long and thin rope of this kite that sails in the air, circling around, waiting for you to catch a glimpse. If I was braver, you would know. But home is far and my words have only as much strength as I do and only as much confidence as I allow for them to have. The rest, the rest of the fight, I have to undertake alone. My hands bear wounds from deep cuts they have endured whilst protecting my heart. The pain becomes physical and my heart stays vulnerable.

The broken images that lay before me whispered unforgettable memories. She fell asleep to the most beautiful Rosie Thomas songs. He sat with his eyes closed, strumming his guitar to the sound of her voice. And I have my very own press on tattoo. All the while, I failed to see that my plants are miserably unhappy, sitting under my window, feeding off each others’ lonely looks and resting their roots in the tired soil I make them live in. Forget about the needs of my soul, forget about trying to take care of the muddled emptiness that’s around, forget about tying myself to a kite to leave this life, forget the immense beauty in loneliness, forget the yearning for another because there are three little flowers who are calling for me. And I call them: these friends of mine. These friends of mine.

What’s a boy to do?

Let’s try jumping into the unknown at the same time. Let’s try to thrust ourselves down from the top of a building, you holding my hand. If we have each other the fall might not be so horrific, but only if you’ll hold me. Have me.

Here’s the whole of me, the hidden parts are meant to make you fall in love with me. What you see not will once make me who I am to you. Just hold me and make me see. If the fog clears up, I will find myself holding you, staring into your mischievous eyes, placing all my hopes in the palm of your hands. Take very good care of them.

The pages will read: he makes me silent. He makes my world and my all, still. What I need is his touch and everything else falls into place or mysteriously falls apart. I cannot tell where I end. I cannot tell if this love is what makes sense to me. What’s a boy to do when the girl knows not what she has to know? He makes me silent. He makes me still.

I could love you, I could love you well. I shudder when you walk past me. Did you see me? How much more can my weak and lonely heart take? Why does it always find the boy who never intended to care? It gets itself into so much trouble and pain and silly heart never is the wiser for the mayhem it creates. But you? You could be the one to save it from drowning. Look at me, just smile at me. Sit beside me. Hug me. Be like you always are and I’ll dream on while you play with my hair. Let only these four walls know that I secretly have given my heart to you.

If in the silence and stillness you can see who I am, then come and love me.

What's a boy to do with a girl like me?

Masters of Poetry - A tribute to the Black Cat

Has anyone ever told you that you look like Sylvia Plath? Or that you sing like Mary Cassatt? Paint like Nina Simone? Is that all irrelevant? The frown on your face scares those around you. Your shoe is a size smaller than you need. My picture won’t fit in it. For the first time you realise that being who you are and not knowing who that can be is the most frightening state of being. The boy is not by your side.

If you can fall in love for a day, then that was me, in love, yesterday. The old love has been laid to rest. One moment erased all that imaginary wonder. If another comes and wants to be the boy in those songs, wants to learn the parts and play along, I will let him. Love can be a feather light paperweight on my bare back. Please don’t leave scars, just a gentle touch. Say you were here but stroke, don’t carve. From time to time I will think about how it might have been. But what’s gone is flying freely in the wind. What never was is kept in a safe place. What is coming, I welcome with open arms. For now, I’ll head out alone and hope for the best.

Sitting on the kerb, a black cat appeared. Are you musicians? - he asked. No, we’re magicians. We’re masters of trickery. We can make you disappear. We can chain you, shove you in a box, put swords through you, saw you in half and still bring you out in one piece. How would you like to join me for a cocktail? The black cat, crossing his legs as he sat in his armchair, lit a cigar and puffed away as he spoke. I’ve seen men before - he said, but never a man in love, what will he do? Us magicians looked baffled, but knew how to remedy this gap in the cat’s knowledge. Fraudulent times - we started. A man in love does not equate a man who looks in love. Sincerity is deceitful, but a man in love will stumble through his life and have only his love on his mind. Alone at night he will head out to find peace with another soul. Leaving the heavy, burdensome life, a man in love will build a palace on his dreams. Melodies, pages, verses will be created. A man in love will walk and walk and walk and with worn through shoes collapse in the arms of the one he loves. A man in love will become vulnerable.

Like Milton let his Adam and Eve have the choice, I will let you choose as well. Not between me and someone else, but between the me you see and the me you don’t. Here is the me you don’t. There? There is someone I have made only for you. When you find me, please let me be who I need to be.

Has anyone ever told you that you look like Sylvia Plath?

P.S. Don’t even try to argue this one. No reason or rhyme was indented for it. Just words juxtaposed in these fraudulent times. But thanks for sticking by me anyway…

The Most Perfect Love

I’ve found and lost the most perfect love. All in the space of three days I flew to Himalayan highs and descended to abysmal lows. Then with a breeze I smiled and moved on. Even the most seemingly perfect dies when it is lifted to reality.

Another soul brushed so close to mine I shook. I heard, I felt, I saw when my eyes were firmly shut. I was ready to reach out; I was almost ready to believe. For a moment I froze, unable to move, standing to watch what would happen. I let myself be captured and mesmerized forever. In another time and place, maybe even on another plane, this man would have been perfect for me. He would have whispered sweet words only to me. He would have composed sweet melody only for me. He would have carried me in the palm of his hands. I would have created pages and pages for only him. I would have shown him all that I have secretly done for him. He would have wanted to make me laugh. I would have wanted to cry each time he had to take leave and journey back to his world. We would have dreamt separate only to conjoin at the end.

The irony of love is that it continually evades perfection. Expectations high, mercilessly waiting, evil resolutely holding its grip on the thinnest fracture appearing in the foundations. And then like a hermit I hide again, afraid that my heart could not withstand another love’s deadly clench. It would die like in the hands of the one before. I would cringe to a foetal position if he left, exactly as with the one before. Broken and wounded I would drag my lifeless dream behind me and he would no longer see, just like the one before did never see. I would build everything up again, learn to go on without him, learn to let the yearning subside and watch as he waves goodbye. I would die again and again like in the hands of the one before.

This perfect love never was, but he is already gone. I could not have bore to loose him to any other woman but her. Now I know that they are a two in perfect harmony. Two beautiful people, two beautiful lives, making beautiful dreams come alive. Sensitive to the cruelness of the world, open eyed about the injustices, careful with the words they let fly into the sky. Love sleeps tangled with them and gently releases its power that sedates them into forever holding dear the potency of creation. I understand. I take my weak heart and treasure it for someone else.

Then I step out of this dream and watch as the world spins madly on.

I Wish I Could

Somewhere between the dark days and their equally frightening light sisters, I stand numb and unable to move because my dream rushes past me. My soul shrinks to the size of a pea and is tied to the fastest car that whizzes by; it’s already ripped from me. I watch as they dance and sing on the other side: I feel invisible, I feel ignored. In my perfect isolation I crouch and find solace on a steady rock. Unable to cross, unwilling to look away, I stay at arm’s length from where I want to be. Forever.

I wish I could unzip a different person from underneath the skin coat I wear. A more vibrant, a more determined, a more powerful person. Someone who caught the moment and hung onto it. Transported to another time but staying true to ideals, I would join those who dance and sing on the other side. I would have courage and strength to walk into the room with all the words I’ve recorded on paper. I would staple my pages onto my skin and parade around so everyone would admire. And they would welcome the me who was brave and talented, unafraid of ambitions and free of inhibitions.

In the middle of the place I would stretch out my arms and spin ‘till I collapsed dizzy and happy. Faster and faster, unable to pay attention to anything around me. Nothing would embarrass me and I would share my all with those who smilingly welcomed every ill formed idea, every ill formed page. There I would find myself. Completely comfortable, I would nurture my budding dream. Then my every wish would be answered.

Only then would I no longer wish that I could.

Till then, each and every night, I wish that I really could.

In The Moment

In the mood of the moment. In the heavy burden of the moment, I sit and write what is most painful for my heart. There are days when the light comes to shine on me. There are others when it comes to torture me. The mirror shows nothing less and nothing more, the fact stares me in the face and makes the days endless.

I dream of white. I dream of innocent white. I tangle the sheets below me and lead a desperate search for you. You might just be lost in the covers, I might find you if I looked reverently. I hang onto the dream tight, unable to stand upright in front of the truth. The pain circles my heart and thinks of new ways to show itself for the light. In the now all that I live for seems irrelevant.

If I let myself be lost in the moment, I might make it through the day. I might not break down at the thought of only you. I might be able to see you for who you are. I want nothing to do with you and you’re the most perfect person for me. What are we to do now? Twist my senses and let me believe that this can last forever. Leave me drenched in your love or leave me yearning for more. I will take what you give and I will not ask. Tell me deep secrets and let me write down your words. I don’t want to forget come daylight.

I shake when you see me. I crumble when you fall in love with me, each day over and over again. I let the wings of your love carry me off to safety. I let your words pierce through me. I collide with the power, a greater force, just to be in your presence. It’s you. Nothing can change what I see in you. No one can make me stop loving you.

In the moment I’m you. In the moment we’re one. If there is sense in time, I forever stay your love.

The wind blew the fine sand towards the east

The wind blew the fine sand towards the east. Each dancing particle flew away carrying the tiny seeds of hope. The dunes grew only on one side and the rugged scenery was a sign of summer preparing to leave. The sun rose and the shore glittered from the million coloured sand, reflecting the powerful orb. The sand in patches was held firmly to the ground by scattered traces of grass and other plants. These tied their roots deep down, securing every single tiny part so the sand could no longer run. The wind blew through their loose leaves, but their soil remained unmoved.

The cliffs stood towering above the water. The gentle ocean stream was rubbing the shore, dividing sand from shell, fish from waste. The dunes, with islands of grass on top of them watched as the sun first stroke them, then played its game with the waves of the giant water.

The wind carried on its symphony, ruffling the tall, burnt looking grass. The moment was motionless, then unleashed: the foaming ocean rocked back and forth from land to a deep well. Birds were eying their prey, circling high in the air, barely able to keep their bearings amidst the wind that tossed them at will. Each creature, safe in its resting place, was deep in slumber, unable to crawl to the humbling state of being.

Dawn met only those who had purpose to salute the day in its infancy. The lonely boathouse stood on a cliff overlooking the beach. It housed a mild mannered ark, with simple dreams and masters who fed off the fruits of Nature. The fishermen pushed their heavy wooden boats onto the water. The nets tangled, hung from the side, waiting for weary fingers to undo what the wild waters have heaved. The journey they must make is familiar both to machine and man. Each coming day, they embark on a path that sees the ocean divide under the fearless spine of the old boat. The nets spread across the unimaginable water, endless at all angles, unpredictable at each moment. The men on the boats, sitting silently, as the fish swim to their deaths. Waiting for the sun to rise and the bitter cool to leave and take with it the misty air hanging low at the shore. Then they return, count the blessing and curse, leave the boat to rest till the next dawn when they will need to slit across the back of the black water, deep into the midst of the unknown, each day further, to find new prey.

The silence of the shore was only seldom broken. Each living thing, plant and animal was waiting the return of the wanderers at sea. Nothing stirred until their silhouettes were traced on the horizon. But morning saw them leap from shore to sea, before anyone else but the birds and cliffs could see.

The boy woke, his lashes covered in sand, his dark hair turned almost golden from the pillow of sand he lay his head on to rest. He arrived with the darkest night and took refuge in the grass. Morning woke not only the birds and wind around him, but also his dreamy eyes and much travelled heart. He lifted his head to look around and with a smile on his face acknowledged the scenery he descended to. Glancing upwards he waved to his stars and then caught the luring rhythm of the ocean. He tapped on his knee as each swish hurled towards him. Sitting there, he was barely taller than the grass. A boy with an appearance not more than eight years old, yet with mischief in his eyes telling tales of a hundred year old. He shook his head to release the trapped sand and let the wind brush through. He stood and breathed the untamed air. His clothes were intact, his hair again dark, his eyes green from the curiosity of a child. He smelt the grass and then the sand; then he understood that he has to smell the water to know where he had come. He ran from the dune towards the open. As he went close enough, he could see the tiny boats appear, coming from their daunting trips. He could wait no longer and hurried time for them to reach the shore .

Two boats, four men altogether, none of them looking pleased with the catch. Their old faces were deepened by wrinkles that ran from eye to chin. The sparkle in their eyes; lost at sea long ago. The fingers bulky and useless in the cold. The skin hard and uncomfortable as ever. The cheeks rosy, but not from dizzying wine, only bitter wind. The fish were not many, the nets tangled again. The boy stood on the shore, his feet touching the water and gazing at the precision of the fishermen. All four jumped out of the boat at the same time. Their knees still in the cold water, they were guiding their boats to the shore.

They saw the boy, but none made a sound. The boats needed to be lifted, from sand to elevated safety. They rested on their side as the nets with all the fish were thrown overboard. Then without a word, the men started to pull the boats onto the wooden planks, to their platform. The boy rushed over to one of the boats to help. He was pulling with all the force he could muster. His hands were red from the ropes carving a path and splinters attacked his fingers. He groaned with the men, but his voice somehow did not fit in. When the hard work was done, one of the fisherman turned to him and asked:

“Who’s boy are ya?”
The boy stood astonished, he never was anybody’s, he roamed the world alone without much supervision.
“I’m nobody’s boy. I’m just alone.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.
“Aye, alone is best” the old man murmured.
“What are you going to do with the fish?” The boy's curiosity did not wilt as he combed his hair away from his eyes when the wind blew against him.
“We sell them.”
“Sell them? For what?” The boy was puzzled by the idea of selling the fish. He had never heard of such a thing. Where he came from, there were no fish and if they appeared they were treated with respect and were made resting places.
“Ah, boy, what you asking for? We sell them is all. We are fishermen”

The old fisherman had kind eyes. The boy saw their sincerity and decided to stay around him. The men carried on with their work silently. Stools were placed in front of the boats and the nets lay there in one heap, tangled. With tools foreign to the boy, the men started to repair the net. Two took the fish in boxes towards the boathouse further a field, whilst the other two sat to give their full attention to the nets. The boy crouched and pulled his eyebrows together, surprised or confused. He saw the deformed fingers of the fishermen work on the delicate nets, sewing the broken pieces together.

“You want to catch more fish?” asked the boy.
The old man just nodded but the words failed to accompany. The boy stood up and turned towards the sea. He stood there silent till the men were finished with their work. He then helped them put their tools away, folded the net neatly into the boat and then walked them as far as the boathouse. There he bid them goodbye and returned to the shore.

The boy spent his day playing in the sand. He befriended creatures he found in little caves or lying in the grass. He wrote in the air and drew in the sand careful enough for the water not to erase with the next wave. He lay on the shore and watched the birds from below. He thought of the fishermen, wondered what they were doing in that instant. When he found nothing more to do, he hurried time to night come more swiftly. Deep sleep caught him unguarded and he only woke little before the next dawn saw the fishermen return.

By the time the men were pulling the boats into the water, the boy was there. The dawn was dark but he was excited about the fishing. He stood waiting till the men returned. He now knew what to do when the boats arrived. He hurried time and saw them return with the high noon. The men were no less broken than the day before. The fish were no more and the nets were no less tangled. The boy ran to the boat, brought the tool and started mending the net. Nobody told him what to do. He was curious still and posed the question to the old man.

“What if the fish won’t let you catch them any more?”
“We’ll starve is what will happen.” And a sigh left his chest.
“Can you make me a kite?” Asked the boy with his huge green eyes and careless hair turning to the old man.
“What you need a thing like that for?” Came the question, but the man still not looked at the boy. His hands were busy sewing the net back to one piece.
“ I want to fly.” Said the boy with the most seriousness.
“A kite can’t keep you in the air boy.” The old man shrugged the boy’s idea and focused more intently on his net.
“ But you can make one that can.” Unhindered by what the man had said, the boy stood up and demanded the kite to be made.
“You need a good strong wood, then some thin paper and strings, lots of strings.”
Before the old man could say anything else, the boy ran off. He left the net unfinished and the stool turned upside down, and ran towards the dune.

The next morning he helped the boats to sea again and then waited for the old man to return. When time was ready the men, boats, fish and nets came home. The fish were no more and the burden was no less. They helped the weary boats to the shore and allowed them to rest till the next day. The nets got untangled and the fish moved from the boats. The boy then ran to get the wood and thin paper and strings for the old man to build him a kite. He was out of breath and excited from the idea that he will be able to fly. He placed the materials in front of the man and waited for him start building. He crouched in front of the piece of wood and watched as the old man took out his pocket knife and carved a piece. Then another and another. He used the string to tie the pieces together and the boy gave everything he needed into his hands. The paper was cut to the right size and the tail of the kite carried many different shapes the man had made for the boy.

“Here it is boy.” said the man when he finished. He would have liked to colour it for the boy, but could see that nothing would have made him happier than if the kite was placed in his hands there and then.
“This is the perfect kite.” He held it and ran off towards the highest cliff.

The kite was almost as big as the boy and he could hardly control it. The wind grew joyous when it saw what to play with in the air. The boy stood on the edge of the cliff and tied the rope of the kite to his wrist. He wanted to make sure that he could not loose it. The sun was shining on the water and the grass was swayed with every breeze. The wind was gathering strength and finally lifted the boy from the ground to the air. He was flying. His feet dangled and the wind was taking him and his kite higher and higher. The old man was watching with tear filled eyes from below. He whispered, “take care my boy”. The boy laughed and waved to everyone below. He saw the fish on the road, moving to somewhere they might be still needed. He saw the old man and the sea. Time flew past him and soon he reached the stars. Each star had a boat hanging from it and he chose the one that looked the biggest. He sat in it and untied the kite from his wrist. He waited for the sun to set and the moon to rise. Then he watched from above as the kite fell below. It fell into the sea with a great big splash.

Dawn neared again. The fishermen got ready and set out in their boats to catch the fish. They set their nets out and returned with boats near sinking from the weight of the prey. The bitter faces glowed and the hands grabbed the ropes more eager. The old man sat next to his boat, mended his net and whispered, “thank you my boy”.

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.