Pictures (2)

In between the grey concrete buildings, on the asphalt road, among parked cars, a poor chariot, pulled by a skinny, tired, slow pace horse. In front, handling the whip sits a young Gipsy man, who shouts at equal intervals:

- C'mon 'n get watermelons, watermelons!

His son, not older than ten and looking not more than 5 echoes his voice immediately:

- Melons, ons!

I haven't seen them selling any and yet they return every day. Every time i hear this picture of Sisific poverty my eyes go into tears...

I ran after the bus because it was an express taking me directly to the metro station. Saves me 5 minutes in comparison to other buses, and the trouble of going on foot through the sub-passage. Once up, looking around me, i notice a girl hugging a white, big dog that wears a red t-shirt and a metal handle. She's blind...

Blind. Carrying a backpack and a white stick in her hand. Smiles and whispers her love to the dog, who takes it and returns it in its own way, licking her hands. Warmly. 

This picture is a knife to my heart. The girl is, like most Hungarian women, incredibly beautiful. But she will never know it. She won't ever sit in front of a mirror witnessing her pretty face, checking it for flaws. She will never see those complementing her. She'll have to take their word for it. She won't ever see the beautiful blue sky or the gold color of this sunmer sun. She will only feel it, thus being more aware of their presence than most of us. Her life is pure perception, a permanent touch and constant trust - in both humans and animals - a life that we, those who see, are unable to live. Paradoxically, though better fitted and equiped, we live less and we're more scared. More estranged. More alone.

All these pictures in my head... The illusion of imortality of a passed moment, of something already dead and gone. Camera altered memories. A fake smile, a fake kiss, a fake pose. Amer-indians were afraid that when pictured their soul was stolen. But they couldn't be more further than the truth. The picture stole nothing. It was empty. Meaningless. Not even a shadow, but a contour. 

That old man looking through garbage for food, sipping the lost drops of a Starbuck's coffe cup. In that image i followed her when she ran after him to give him some money for a meal. She returned crying the blue ocean drops that were her eyes. She saught cover in my arms, unable to really hid her from the horror of this world. I loved her then more than ever, not for her gesture but for her immense empathy, for her huge embracing heart. Who's able to cry for others nowadays?...

Our cameras are now only turned towards ourselves...

Ogre(s)

Am i a bad person for not giving a damn about what goes on in Syria, Irak or Afghanistan? That the war of the ogres for crude oil and geopolitical interests doesn't interest me in any way? They should all kill each-other for all i care... It's all a cheap television show anyway.

On our money. Slimy know-nothing ogres live and make decisions on our money and on our behalf. They feed us hopes for several months every four years and then they reduce us to what we truly are: their food.

Fascisms are the ogres who still chew on Christianity. Because its representative, the Church, allowed them to. White supremacists burn crosses, others wear it on their armbands or on their flags, killing in the name of. All in the name of a God who for two thousand years now keeps Its distance from all this madness. 

The ogre humanity hasn't seen a God for 2 millenniums but sacrifices are still made in its name. Killers and lunatics still think they act in its name. I bet the ogres who do the cross sign near every church, without having ever read the Bible would be the first to nail Christ back on His cross if He would dare to return... 

The world belongs to the ogres now... There is a high chance that out of the blue a drunken ogre will punch you hard in the ear in a pub just because he'a looking for a fight, that a fundamentalist ogre will blow up the metro, the train or the plane you're traveling in just because there aren't enough virgins on this planet to satisfy his need for blood on his cock, that some idiot ogre will break your head or hit you with a chain or a knife because you have the wrong color, the wrong ethnicity, the wrong origin or you support the  wrong team...

Ogres, ogres everywhere... Forever unsatisfied, looking for more food, more money, more women, more houses, more, more, more for the ogre hunger within...

Keep your children away from the educational political or financial ogres. Keep them away from their own ogreish desires. Better keep your children inside you or simply flush them down the drain in a rubber container. Otherwise their gonna turn up ogres too...

I myself am an ogre feeding on his own thoughts. Or maybe my mind is the ogre devouring me. Or maybe my sexual desires are the ogre of this unsatisfied body. There is no escape from the ruthless teeth of the biggest ogre of all: life itself.

Past Lives

I see myself dressed up in armor. My metal hands are covered in blood. Mine and my enemies'. The sword in my hand is dripping the liquid of life and the sweat that finds it's way through the iron jacket. I can hear myself screaming. While i tremble from adrenaline shots given bu death i find comfort in the bodies of those dead, at my feet. As i raise my hand in victor i wonder: is this another mind trick of my rich fantasy or a vivid memory of a past life? Is this a dream, a desire or a memory?

Sexuality became violence. I can only find arousal in brutality of physical love. I only wanted harder, longer. Tenderness is a vague memory of conquest or a result of post coital victory. But the battle is now just battle. Been deprived too long. It's time to take what is rightfully mine. Even if that means by force. 

I was told that most likely in a past life i was Jack the Ripper: a rapist and a murderer of women. But Jack the Ripper was no rapist. He was a failed rapist. He was using knives instead of a penetrating penis. God knows what was in his tormented mind and sadistic soul. Rapists and murderers steal pleasure. I got a different type of sin. I want to give it by all means. Which makes me believe that i was indeed Jack the Ripper in a past life.

I am sure i used to wear caligulae and a body armor that we now call lorica segmentata. In front of several pictures of gladius-es i've immediately recognized one and wanted to buy it. 3 years later i still do. Battle ready. Fully sharpened. On my wish list is learning to use a sword and a bow with arrows. I was a soldier in many lives before. Roman, Crusader, musketeer. Or my mind has been totally altered by books, movies and video-games. Either way, i am living more lives than one. And still doesn't seem enough. 

Not being able to identify your true self, your true nature. Not being able to settle and find peace. Isn't that a clear sign of reincarnation, of an uncompleted search? ...

Egypt, Carthage, Jerusalem, Seville and Cordoba. I am drawn to these places, i see them in my dreams. As if i am to re-trace a former path that i've been already walking on, many, many times before. I wonder if once i got there - cause i hope to get there - i will be able to recognize the ruins, the shadows, the missing streets. Will i be able to go to the old hose where once i knew the peace and kindness that i'm looking for...

If only the waters would speak... They wittiness it all. They could tell us how the past really was. They could reflect us into our future.

In time the World became smaller and, contrary to initial expectations, Humanity became smaller as well. Insignificant even. That's what you get when you remove Gods from your lives and you take Earth out of the center of the Universe... Humanity is now drifting in its own lack of purpose and meaning. Living in constant denial so that it won't commit a mass suicide.

I see myself standing on a mountain of corpses. Victorious. With a bloody sword in my hand. Me, so afraid of physical confrontations, triumphant in a major battle of the past. Definitely a wishful thinking. Inventing a personal mythology that would serve as an excuse for a disappointing present. A compensation for the fact that i don't matter. That i'm anonymous. And i'll always be...