wake up

Wake up. Wash your face. Splash the sadness away. Cold water sometimes helps. But not in the depths.

Wake up. Dress up. What to wear? To show the world that you care…To show the world that you are okay. Wear a smile. Fake a smile. ‘Cause this is how you make it right.

Wake up. Move on. Start to go. Your job awaits you and now you know. Another day in the same life. How did this happen? How did you arrive?

Wake up. It’s time to shine. Let’s see that fake smile. Well done would I say, nobody can fake so well in May.

It is like a factory of lies and we are the products of it. We run the business, but we are the same robot workers. Circulus vitiosus.

We lie to ourselves every day. That it’s fine. That it’s okay. Is it? Is it good to do this daily? To fake a smile and move on gently? Where are the scars that nobody can see? Would love to show it, but why so sincere?

Nobody looks anyway, nobody cares. They are not interested in the depths of despair.

So we wake up, wash up, dress up, fake up.

This is how it made. The happy life, you know? A lie with an F.


abandon me

Imagine life as you know it. Imagine it with all the physical aspects, with all its intelectual and emotional contents.

Imagine your daily life, your daily goals, your 5 year plans and what you consider the meaning of life.

Imagine it in between the walls of your home, the city in you live in, the country in which you are citizen.

Imagine your family, your friends, your pet, your colleagues and all the people, know and unknown, who you met on your way to your destination.

What would you think, if I would tell you that this life doesn’t exists? That is all just a lie, which we all tell ourselves day by day, as our life goes by. It is all just a coincidence or is it really our fate? To live like this? To meet the humans that we meet? To get touched or to get destroyed? By words or by actions? By words not said or actions not made?

Is it worth it? Why? Why not?

I always thought of life as a mass of great opportunities…Even when it didn’t look

that way. I always thought it can get better. It can be different. But I am not different. We are not different. We are all the same.

The same lie, living our ant-life day by day. Lying to ourselves. Lying to others. We celebrate life and for what? Because we will all die? Because we don’t know what will come next? Because we ignore it?

Of course, life is what you make of it. But what do you make of it? Is it the nature consequence of your choices, or is it more to that? Can you change it in any way? Or you roll between the invisible walls which are the layers of the circumstances? The circumstances with you were born with. The circumstances you didn’t choose. The invisible strings that move you. The lies you tell to yourself and others make you hear them. Are you listening? Is it really like you imagined at the beginning of this writing? Is it really like that? Your life? Or it doesn’t exist, like I told you? Is it maybe, after áll… a long, sweet, good old lie?


Debussy on the Subway

As I was listening to Claire de lune on my way to the Clinic, I was observing my entourage. Morning in Budapest. Subway. Mass transportation.

Numb people. Faceless stories, life of the masses. Children, women and men who are trying to get to their duty, forced to be side by side on some noisy train, heading towards their destination. Every one trying to “survive” the ride. Some are reading, some are listening to music or whatsoever on their headphones, some are just blinking in the nothingness.

As I was listening to Claire de lune on my way to the Clinic I was observing my entourage. Morning in Budapest. Subway. Mass transportation.

My vision blurred, but my mind was clear.

Awake people. Faces with stories behind, individual lives forced in a mass. Who will ever know these stories? Who will ever not judge about the crowd? About this morning of routine? Who will ever question the individuality of the masses?

I read once that people on public transportation seem like deprived, depressed, often misinterpreted, because this is a natural reaction to the closeness of strangers. But that’s not the necessarily the case. We are just protecting ourselves.

That’s why they looked numb to me. But these faceless stories have souls. These individuals have lives. Lives to carry on.

As I was listening to Claire de lune on my way to the Clinic, I was observing myself. I felt numb. I felt faceless. I had no story. Can you feel the numbness? Or the absence of the feeling gives you the impression of the anesthesia?

As I was wondering, I arrived to my destination. I left the subway, but the questions remained. For another routine morning. For another faceless ride.