New Year

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

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

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

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

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