Anger

There is a rage within me that will not subside.

For the past few days, my inner voice has been screaming with every heartbeat. At the weather I normally love. At a power cut that may have otherwise seemed funny. At any inkling of obtuseness, or a delayed response. The drunk across the street that would not shut up - I feel like yelling in his face. An old lady stopping suddenly in front of me - normally I would be patient - now, I want to scream at her, the same split-second. 

It's not a wail, or a yelp or a shriek. It's a battle-cry. The inarticulate bellow which, if revealed, would nonetheless be clear - perhaps clearer to any witnesses, than me. It's instant. I feel it forming in my throat, spawning a snarl across my lips. 

There is nothing but aggression. There is no pain, nor want for something. There is no immediate frustration - just Rage.

I keep this beast hidden. For now, only few have glimpsed its shadow. They're not yet terrified - just worried; and sometimes resentful. I understand.

Take care!

You have my heart...

You have my heart.

I wouldn't know how to take it back, even if I wanted to. 

I feel like I could love you forever. And although there is an entire list of reasons why I like you, I love you for none of them. I just do. It's like a universal humming that makes it all OK. The high of being near you, and the low of worrying about our future; the good that is your patience, and the bad that is my anxiety; the light in your eyes and the darkness within each of us; the warmth of your embrace and the chill in my heart when you're not near. It is all submerged in this cosmic wave of balanced and steady... something. Something clear, but with a violet hue. With star-like sparkles all around... and it smells like... baked apples and clean linen. 

It has to be love. This has to be the most accurate description of love, if there has ever been one.

You have my heart, my mind, my soul, my everything.

And I hope I never want it back.

Take care!

The Illusionist

You see the poster, you buy the ticket and you go inside.

It's just smoke and mirrors.

The room seems to change decor each time you shift your gaze. At first it's a library, full of books - old and new, exciting and intriguing, then it's a playground, then a chess-board, then a playground again, with swings and carousels and a sandbox. Then it's a home; for a brief second, it's Heaven. and then it turns back into a chess board. And he's always there - guiding you, urging you on, trusting you to keep your cool.

It's just smoke and mirrors.

He wears a heart on each sleeve, and you can never tell for sure which one is his own, and which one he borrowed from a book on card tricks. He'll take your own and pull its strings and tear it to shreds, only to put it back together again. And when you think you're safe, that the show is over and you can go home, he'll tell you to "pick a card, any card".

It's just smoke and mirrors.

You pull a card out from the deck hoping with all your might that it's a simple 2 or 3, but when you flip it over, you're rendered stunned and speechless, because the card in your hand keeps morphing back and forth between the King of Hearts and the Red Joker, and your heart sinks and skips a beat with every transformation.

It's just smoke and mirrors.

Surely you could leave. But will you? Knowing that it's all smoke and mirrors is what keeps it safe, right? But that chill in the air is real. And so is the road you took to get here, which is what makes the illusion even more believable.

It's just smoke and mirrors.

And you are compelled to stick around till the end of the show, when the mirrors come down and the smoke clears and you get to see the man behind the mask.

Take care! 

When we're fourty...

*Just a few lines I wrote before I met you...*

Why is life such a heinous witch?

And how did the simple decision to start talking to some guy I had found on a forum years ago change my entire perspective on men, relationships and the human race, in general, so much?

I wonder if your eyes light up when you smile at our little inside jokes...

I wonder if you daydream about that moment when we'll meet, be it next week, in 10 years, or when we're old and grey. I can't wait to take our wheelchairs for a spin in a park, by the way. (you choose the park)

We are yet to discover a subject on which we disagree completely, and yet it feels like we've talked about everything under the sun.

I wonder who you'll end up with, and I hope, with all my heart, that you'll fall madly in love with her. I hope she'll spark new ideas in your mind every week, and make you smile every day. I hope she has a sweet voice you'll want to hear in the morning, even before your bitter coffee. I wonder what her name is... I don't think you've met her yet...

And you'll turn slightly sad when she tells you something funny one of her guy-friends said that day, and then blame it on your hard day at work. "She doesn't have to know." But she knows... And she can't really tell if she's happy or sad that you can't put anything important into words. But she will. She'll be the kind of girl who tells you exactly what she thinks or feels, because she won't be afraid words will make it real. She'll know it's real anyway...

Oh I hope you find one another.

That way, by the time you're fourty, you won't have missed what could have been the best years in a relationship. You'd have been through it all. The fun 20s, the chilled out 30s and you'll just begin to really organize things in your lives; together.

I hope she's pretty. So pretty, I wouldn't dare to look at her. So pretty, all your friends will envy you. And faithful. I hope she'll never do or say or even think anything to hurt you, ever. And if she does, she'll have me to answer to. Just... Just put her on the phone.

Oh, we're worlds apart, but you're so much a part of my world, that I feel it would collapse if we were to miss even one week.

You'll be hard to explain, that's for sure....

Take care!

A student, no more - Part 2

"I'm sorry, but I have other plans for you." The words were like a song I'd been playing on repeat in my head for the past week or so.

I was now on the train to Budapest, talking to this lady in her fifties about leech therapy and zodiac signs. She knew nothing about phones, and although she said she'd traveled a lot, she didn't seem to know a lot about that, either. Romanian was not her first language; I couldn't figure out what it was, because my fear of awkward situations prevented me from asking (this fear will become a recurring theme throughout this story - fair warning to you, reader). She was really nice - bordering on intrusive. Asking me how long I was going to stay in Budapest and where. I told her about hostels and she seemed to have the biggest Eureka moment of her life, realizing that for the price of sharing a room with 4 or more strangers, you could get a roof over your head for the fraction of what you would pay at a hotel. I feel like I've changed her life.

Finding my hostel in Budapest was a matter of walking up and down Rákóczi street, finding, fist the street that I had set as a landmark telling me I'd gone too far, and then the street I should have known came before the one I was looking for. Finally I found my street, and walking along it gave me the best feeling I'd had in a long time. It was full of cafes and pubs and bars and restaurants, each with its own personality and a representative crowd of people in front. Street singers, languages I kind of understood, languages I recognized and languages I had never heard before - all spoken by young people in colorful clothing, smiling and going... God knows where. And the hostel itself? Just... wow. Friendly staff, a guitar hung up on the wall, a bookshelf with a sign on it that said "Take one & give one", beanbags everywhere, and the beds - each, a room in itself, a little shelf with a drape towards the room, so you could create your own tiny universe to read, write or sleep to your hearts content. There wasn't much socializing among room sharers. But that's okay. Only the guy in the bed below mine (I was bed 7, by the way) was quite talkative - both online and with whoever was around him and awake at the time. No matter, I fell asleep like a baby that night, after a long walk.

I crossed Elisabeth bridge, and I swear, the Danube worked wonders with the hills/mountains around here, and then the Hungarians worked wonders along its banks. I mean, look at this view! I was greeted by this wonder before I even got to the bridge. 

Ignore the ladies in front. I did. :)

And after crossing, there was a waterfall with some stairs around it. Climbing the stairs was fun, I found these little gems along the way:

You can't really see, but in the picture on the left, some passer by (I wandered if they were tourists or they lived around here) left a glass bottle upside down on that wall.

And on the right - well... a picture speaks a thousand words, I think that's what they say...

When I got to the top of the stairs, I was so glad I had taken that little detour (the plan had been to walk upstream, to Margaret bridge, passing the famous Chain Bridge along the way, and return on the other bank). This was the view from up there:

Looking to the right...

... and to the left. You can see the bridge I had just crossed.

I just gave up on taking pictures after that. I remembered that the Internet is full of pictures of landmarks, mine weren't going to make a difference. I could probably download much better ones, if I ever felt the need to look at these places again - although I am pretty certain that Budapest is a city I'll revisit more than once.

I followed the plan. I walked along the bank to Margaret Bridge. I got cursed at (I think) in Hungarian, by some angry guy on a bicycle - although he might have sworn at the much bigger group I myself was trying to find a way around. I got thanked (this I know for sure) by another, much calmer guy on a bike for getting out of his way. And I saw a sad man. He was in his 40s, I think, and he was hunched over, sort of hugging himself as he walked, as if trying to comfort himself through some great tragedy he'd been through. He didn't even notice the people around him; he was in his own bleak world, and his eyes were staring somewhere far away as he walked. I wondered where he was coming from and where he was going. But I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer.

I watched the sunset across the Danube,  slowly starting to feel cold and tired, by this time. And as the nightlife was just beginning to stir - clubs opening, people drinking beer right off the docks where boat-restaurants were conveniently waiting for cash-laden tourists, and streetlights in the distance making the city look more like a fairy town - I got back to the hostel.

I was too tired to eat. I had a shower and went to sleep in my little box.

The next morning, in the kitchen I made myself a cup of tea and simply had to take a photo of the goulash recipe printed on the wall:

Blurry picture, but a good reminder that there's always a recipe online if I want one

After finishing my tea, I got my stuff, and went downstairs to wait for the buss that would take me to the airport. The bus that the hostel staff so kindly helped me book was right on time, which I really appreciated. But I had a little time to spare, so I started reading this:

The first few paragraphs seem promising. I'd like to read the rest, some day. I wonder if that copy will still be there, the next time I'll go to Budapest, or if someone will have replaced it by then.

When I got to the airport, with lots of time to spare and famished since I hadn't had dinner or breakfast, I decided to buy a sandwich and a latte and go outside on the terrace to enjoy my food and drink. Imagine my surprise when I realized I'd have company for breakfast.

They enjoyed some crumbs I decided to share, and they were so close!

After that, I took the flight I'd really come to Budapest for...