…. Strange feeling sitting down… You’re afraid of it but still something in you says that you must…and you feel it tearing you apart… and you still don’t undertake it. You’re a coward, you withhold it, gradually grind yourself and still find the strength for it…and you sit down and start writing. Not knowing about what, about whom, but simply sit down and write… Maybe you will write the world’s masterpiece or just a couple of meaningless rows of thoughts which at 70 years of age you’ll find in the back corner of a dusty old shelf… and it’ll be a good feeling to find that dusty old paper, because although we can never truly translate our thoughts into writing, you’ll never have a better picture of what you felt when you were 19.
I’m sitting in a small room in Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca), silence all around me… The sound of Kelly Family from my computer; it’s passed midnight… And how different it is to write at this time, different to live, to feel… Probably everything that you hold in yourself seems childish now, but you know that it will haunt you for days, weeks if you cannot spill it out of yourself. It’s hard being 19 years old. Probably harder than ever before in my short life. Another world emerges in front of your eyes, not the one you believed in; you’re not the person you thought you are or you just don’t know who you are a year after you truly asked yourself this question. Strange animals are we humans, especially grownups. How many times would you like to be a child again (and many people would laugh now, ‘cause according to many of them a person my age is still a child; and probably they’re right), sitting in a small forgotten village, seeing how you play the world of the grownups with your cousins and brother. And you’re saying to your self “I wish I could be a grownup so I can command to whomever I want to and slap my grandchild if I want to”. And a couple of years later you realize that you were once so wrong and how many times would you accept your granny’s slap instead of the daily slaps that life provides you. Because HE doesn’t explain anything…just hits you…doesn’t tell you why…doesn’t tell you until when…from this moment onwards sonny tighten your trousers, ‘cause you don’t know a thing about ME…and probably we’ll never be able to know. People all around you change or you just didn’t see them and they were like this all the time. Probably you lived in a lie all your life, but it somehow felt better than the dire truth.
I feel old. How many times does it haunt me that the people who surround me, the people who brought me up are just not the same anymore. You don’t even recognize your friends anymore…Yourself either. A part of you always pursues to be liked by others and does everything in his powers so people accept him and the other shuts himself away, puts a lock on himself and quietly hides in his hole, sometimes sniffing the air outside but smelling its rotten odour retreats back. Sometimes you play the role of the happy, joyful young man, the smart, the courageous and some even look at you and say with envy “He has it so well, dang I would like to be like him”. And you quietly smile, play the comedy, go home, go to sleep and your real face emerges… not a strong young man, but an already old, curved backed, disfigured and grey haired disheartened old man. With heavy steps he comes forward, grouches and slaps you… Wake up asshole, who the hell do you think you are again?… and you just sit, ‘cause you know that this disfigured old man is the one who opens your eyes and when you are sitting with your companions he can shut you off. He takes the smile of your face in a blink of an eye and you wake up that people all around you ask to where the hell have you wondered again, ‘cause for minutes you don’t pay attention to them. Strange old guy… In minutes he can take away that tiny happiness and you don’t see the one standing next to you as he covers his girlfriend’s lips with true or false kisses, but you see yourself sitting alone and disfigured… I’m listening to Gyögyhajúlány (The girl with pearly hair)… Nobody around you… The world’s most miserable and excluded, alone in the endless shadows, locked up…You wish to scream, but your throat dries up, your mouth tightens, you lay down your eyes and smile, ‘cause this is what we have to do, right?…and politely turn away. Then you go home. Your day already ruined and the smile washes away from your face. They ask you what’s wrong with you, if someone is home. You just mutter and shut yourself away, ‘cause you think that this’ll help.
And you eat your food which your mother already doesn’t put in front of you, but you get it out of the fridge and start nibbling on it alone. The food doesn’t really slide down your dry throat but there is nothing you can do, ‘cause this is a part of your life too….I already filled a page and erased my first sentence… Maybe it’s already hard to write. I look over what I’ve written, change it but it won’t be the same I as imagined it… 30 minutes ago your brother left to see his girlfriend, to console her in family matters. He spends the little money that he has on a cab just to get to her as quickly as he can. And you quietly sit in a room and pretend to sleep (you even open your mouth to mimic that you’re snoring) and sharpen your ears to hear what he’s talking about on the phone. And you receive another slap on your face from HIM. Not even your brother is the same. Probably a distortioned old man haunts him too, but you cannot know it. You can talk to everyone, even listen to a drunken guy and give him seemingly smart advices, as if you knew what life is. Probably you’ll even quote from someone just to seam smarter. But you cannot sit down with your brother to change some true words. You can’t ask him a decent question, can’t give him an advice and don’t even dare to tell him what haunts you. Not the image of a strong older brother, but that of an old man, just like you appears in front of you; who during the night goes to be with someone who he is madly in love with, but maybe she cannot give all of this back to him, or maybe she’s in love too. Who are you to judge? And in an animalic way you don’t fight for love anymore – to be a careless teen going to sleep with someone in his arms under the shadow of an old pine tree and glancing at the Moon bathing everything with its light – but for yourbasic instinct to sleep with someone. Discouraging, that someone who considers himself smart can fall this deep to think of nothing else lately. We humans are strange, not at all different from our four legged relatives. Maybe that sometimes we try to think, but not always….Maybe this’ll be it for tonight, ‘cause words aren’t pouring as before and that moment that triggered this all is long gone…There’s no need to force it anymore…maybe tomorrow, or the day after, or maybe after a year I’ll sit down once again and start writing… 1 hour and 16 minutes. Time to sleep.
Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca), 23rd of May 2006