I recommend listening to Hammock's "East" while reading this for maximum enjoyment.
Inspired by: Paulo Coelho's "Aleph"
The idea of this piece was born in a small compartment in a train somewhere in the countrysides of Hungary.
Sunrise, wheatfields, towns, forests, towns, forests, beds of roses. I look outside the window like a little child with innocent amusement, like a 4-year old entering a cotton candy factory. In this feeling of euphoria that I can't describe or tell to anyone, that would stay locked in my soul with absolutely no need for any kind of documentation except maybe those simple little words I am writing now. On a train heading back home.. leaving behind people who taught me the real meaning of friendship and unconditional love, some of whom I have said my last goodbye to. On a train, sitting alone in a closed compartment remembering the things I have been through this year in a moment in which I feel that my world is fitting back together like a puzzle whose pieces were all out of place, subtly reminding me that it sometimes could be a beautiful, meaningful whole where I could relax.
Lying back in my chair, listening to the music I love and that accompanies me in every journey at times, dancing around and touching the sun rays that are barely cracking their way through the tree branches with my hands at others. I can see myself in the window but I can also see my lovely place back in the city lighted all along as it always was but nobody is there to indulge in the beauty of it like I used to do. I can see my friends all wasted, laughing heartedly over something irrelevant as I smile and continue leading them home, I can see my cigarette smoke departing my lungs and flying into nothingness. I can see my laughs and my tears and my consistent perseverence to do my best for the family that never leaves my mind. Everything in my world -for a moment that I knew for sure it would pass- was simultaneously very clear and very large, very small and very quiet.. very peaceful.
Soon I will return to my respective home as I show off the pictures I took trying to convince myself that a journey did exist. All my photos and souvenirs will be there but time, will tell me that I never left this home, this room, this chair. I will try to tell my stories about the cities I have been to and the people I met on my way but the more I will try, the more I will become convinced that I won't be able to describe except what has changed from the outside, not what changed inside me. Otherwise I'll be crazy.
