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.