ilona

So, you know what is coming. Yes, you know I am writing about you. I told you. I wanted to spend some moments writing something to your heart. I believe in its beauty. In you. I can sense great warmth deep inside you. I am photoless, maybe you are challenging my terrible memory. God, you looked perfect tonight. More beautiful than ever before.

I look back over the evening. It was like car crash TV. I couldn't take my eyes off her. I couldn't waste my own time playing or fidgeting (as she was) when such a fascinating being sat in front of me. She was a good friend. So beautiful and confused. Perhaps. I loved her. I wanted to see her again soon. Not wait months like before today. She had a good heart. A good crazy heart.

The flame flickered behind the left side of her face, the right from where I sat, it licked the edge of her face. Mostly her face was in darkness, but her eyes were piercing the night, stunning it in its tracks as it was just appearing. They were sharp and gentle, utterly compelling. She was smoking, playing with the lighter, or the cigarette, or a nail that she had found and used to scratch a sticker off the table. Anything. I was holding her, in my head at least. She had no idea how lovely she was. Unfathomably insecure. Golden. 

Some people are so far from boring that life with them seems multicoloured. I hadn't seen these colours of this woman, of her tapestry, her life painting, for so long. All I wanted to do was stay with her. She had to go. I had to go. Not knowing when. We will see each other again. Yeah, she was a good woman, I wanted to shake her like a kids rattle, send some joy her way, make her see it really is all ok. Thinking too much is overrated. Not for everyone. Some are at the other end. Some are vacant vessels. This was about her though. Her faults were potentially gorgeous, sweet, delightful.

She sings in a choir. I'd love to wrap my ears around that. She hates photos. I can't even get a crafty one. I want one of this magic person so much, but I want her to let me, not to force the door down. It doesn't feel right. It is a shame that such a perfect looking woman declines something so natural. She is odd. Spectacular. Odd. It's to love her for, not the reverse.

Felix

We go so far. We never stop looking. An idea, to step yet further, to challenge the boundaries. Not without fear. For stop us it shall not. We must push those walls, test how durable they are. Stronger than the human will? Often not.

Mother is watching, tears dry on her face. The world watches and waits. Death or glory. One way or the other. Either way, your mind, your thoughts, a ticking bomb. On the edge, after you opened the door, (and what must you have considered on seeing that view) you finally throw yourself off and plummet. Over 700 miles an hour at one stage. You break the speed of sound. You defy belief. You are a hero to us. You show what some of us know. Anything is possible. Even more now.

The smiles, the applause, the echo of your madness. Crazy or visionary? Both. Such feats need both in a man, in a woman. You laughed at death, for he will find you as he will us all. Your time. Not your time. beautiful joy on all of the faces. To own the earth for a moment in time.

For making people's dreams real, for showing us how beautiful our earth is from up there.

Thank you, Felix.

Zoltan's Nest

I am here with a family, in Budapest. It feels like home. Away from home, away from home. Wherever that may be. To each of us something. Perhaps different.

I call it 'Zoltan's nest.' I hope one day for... I just hope. It's a thing of beauty. To feel the warmth. Of the home. Of some people's love. Unnecessary and gorgeous. Surprising and special. All consuming.

Hold me in your heart and never let me go. Each of us could be everything, if only we looked outside. I owe you it all. How can I ever deliver? How indeed. To want to show the hand we hold. I look into eyes and see kindness and swallow, I look into the flames and I feel your embrace.

One day you will understand how much it all means to me. Maybe. I am better with written words than spoken ones. Those ones (the latter) never quite seem to hit the mark. We show, not say. I search for deeper chasms of demonstration. I seek you out and I find you there, at the centre of the nest, keeping it safe and warm, happiness glowing, overflowing, spilling from where once there was nothing. What a landscape, what a scenery you painted, what a castle you built. What a love. What a stunning love. There. Here. All around. Now.