Invisible Forces

Do I lead myself nowhere? It is all in the eyes. What lives behind? Oh, we try to see. Get lost in the magic. My darling, I know it isn't real, I know it isn't dream. I know nothing. Sometimes we break, and never know why.

I can't find answers when my heart is dripping from the shelf, when the clock still doesn't tick, and it seems as never ending as some of the seconds that once sounded upon it.

I could want to give myself wholly. To you. It wouldn't matter, I think. Invisible forces come into play. Animals capture moments and swallow them forever. Like they never even existed. We wash away, into the past, just memories, some rotten history, some golden curse. So much beauty, it never even seems it was here. Inside some eyes, maybe just two, silent answers, vanished parts of us. Swimming, in the sea, never coming back. Dearest times of our lives, we never even knew we had. You.

That Clock

Maybe it's when it all goes calm and I stop and think about it that I realise. I miss that clock. That damn ticking sound. Infuriating as it was, driving me mad at times, it was a comfort. A constant warmth to my flat in those cold months, a guide through my days, a reassuring presence, though at times it just became too loud for my thoughts. I didn't want the battle. I wanted the clock to make it easy. Yet, right now, strangely, I miss it. I cannot fathom what I am saying really. I miss the sound of my days. The sound of them marching and departing my present in favour of my past. For each time it ticked that moment slipped from my view, over my shoulder. Gone. Time. The more of it that passes the closer each of us is to our own deaths and the death of those we love. Somehow, it feels like more of a friend though. It has brought me this far, so I can trust it to take me where I am destined to go. That clock, deceased, waiting in the wings for a new incarnation.

These Two Women II

One turned out to be a liar

One turned out to be true

She was the one who stood the test of time

The other was emotionally blue

The Guerrilla Writer

Write. Don't think. Treat it like a war. Dive in. Battle with the world and empty your emotions. On to the blank space in front of you. Spontaneous and passionate. Let it flow through the pen. Whatever you believe. In ink. On paper. Forever etched into the grain of the page. From a spark in the mind. The stem, the root, the beginning. Birth. Beautiful baby. Don't make a plan. The execution of a plan is never the success you would hope for.

Write for you soul. For cathartic waves. For the exorcism of it all. To repair past pain. To justify yourself to nobody. This existence. That summons so many questions. To mind. Free yourself of all the reasons and write. Just write. For a song, for a poem, for a world, for nothing at all. All is just a dream.

I want to be a guerrilla writer. Write in the eye of a storm, survive. Then disappear. Fight and demonstrate what I believe in. Some things, worth fighting for. Worth spilling blood for, for the eventual value. The meaning. How symbolic. The struggle, the tragedy, the result, the history of events. The turmoil. To write. With a pen in a hand and a connection with the paper. Sparks. The greatest battle. To make some sense out of everything and nothing. To love and show compassion at every single moment. The impossible. Time and again. A guerrilla heart. Never stops, never undoes itself, never truly sleeps.

The nucleus and the vanishing trick.

The Pincer Movement

Render the opponent immobile. What kind of dream has led to this? It brings me here. When attacking your prey, your enemy, you must stun them, you must leave them useless. I awake and immediately think of formation. Pounce. Leave your audience flapping. Lost. If they are powerless to stop you. Maybe they are disarmed through the element of surprise. Once they were unarmed, weaponless creatures, living on farms, in villages. What kind of a dream. It becomes reality. It appears to be my madness. Pin the devil to the wall. In one move. Swift, fluid, with no room for failure. Execution. To perfection. Divine. Poetry. Dark, dark, majestic poetry. Nail the coffin shut. In one move. Two wings. The pincer movement.

Howling At The Moon, Almost Full As It Is

I feel like a wolf at the best of times. And the moon is a pendulum that lost its urge to swing. The disappearing urge. The torch. The spotlight, beaming down. I howl across the town. From one end to the other. I walk home alone, soaking up the streets here in the outskirts of my beloved home in Budapest. The silence of the streets. The rumble of trains that breaks the silent moments. The moon's constant glow upon everything. Following my every move. Kissing my shadow. Throwing another shadow. Shadows chasing me down streets and corners. The effortless night. Alive and magical. I am the wolf, waiting in the wings. Tomorrow I shall have my way. Tomorrow.

An Explanation

Life would seem to me to be all about the gaps, the spaces, the void. With how we fill it, how we see it, how we approach the emptiness, within us, our own selves, and outside of us. Everywhere we look is wide open space. Filled at times by things that seem meaningless, but seldom if ever are. The meditation, the freedom to explore, to roam, to make discoveries. When we are confronted with a blank canvas it is for us to provide a meaning and a context. We can imagine, we can paint, we can become anything. We can grow into beautiful shapes and creatures of endless colour and life.

I ask you to meditate. To ponder the majesty of everything. To question what makes things, why they exist and to challenge yourself in new ways. Constantly. When you hear silence, when you see blankness, when you feel the spaces, enjoy what they can truly give us. They are sent to give meaning to the world around. Our lives. The love. The raging grace of nature. Breathe. Consider the art of breathing. Each moment is a chapter, whether you blinked and missed it or do not seem capable of accessing the magic of what life really is. I don't claim to know, but I sure as hell want to understand and absorb and grow. Like a tree. A solitary tree. In the wind. Blowing, in an invisible force. Nothing else around, just what you can imagine. If you even need to.

When confronted with a blank space, a page without words, a song of silence it is the best of all, exactly what you want it to be. To meditate. To take the time out. For yourself, for those near you, for the world we share as a race. Come alive, do not fear the void, turn it into a forest of dreams. One tree. A forest. Whatever you desire. Imagine. We all possess this power. To unlock the door. We are evergreen.