My Life, My Heart

Well, he went home yesterday, and it's funny how my heart, my body and my mind keep talking so long with him. My hand insists over and over on writing him letters even though my mind can't produce anything other than "Szeretlek" over and over and over. Yes, yes, I love him and I love him so much it's blinding. Once again I'm drowning into an existence dedicated solely to survival, not to life. The plotting of politics, the maneuvering among all kinds of deals, the fishing for information, turning into somekind of flesh machine, a moving doll that presents a fair porcelain surface but encloses darkness and cold inside.

Back at the office, things are as nice and fine as they can get. This existences goes on among technical blabbering, blogs, smiles at the spirited and heartfelt words of our cherished Dragonfly, the scents of violets escaping from some small jar somewhere, the dream of dancing grass carpets extended on a long, long, wuthering land, and ... again, Amazon.com. I feel so close again to Anais Nin and can't but hope and dream to taste her words again, soaked in her surrealistic words, where days and life are closed in a cage of cellulose, layered page after page in soft, ink-scented words and traces. The escape, the avoiding of this harsh, ripping world that has nothing to my taste. Close my eyes to the taste of ashes and live fiercely fighting like a blooddrunk amazon, bow and arrow in hand, killing before asking. Live, live, violently vital and happy, a deceiving mirage of the darkness within, where the child, the maiden, the woman slumbers in oblivion, locked in a bone casket awaiting for the moment to rise and shine.

I retrieve back to live in my head, in my heart, in my words. This is why I can write so much, because this is how I live and this is why I feel such a tremendous love for Anais Nin.