c'est parfait

This. This is what I consider a perfect Friday night. My head resting on his shoulders, he's working on his laptop, I'm writing on my phone. In the background, some movie is on, but neither of us are really paying any attention to it. Pomelo and wine on the floor by the bed, occasional glances at each other. Quiet time, his deep brown eyes, the feeling of not needing anything else but this very moment. No worries about what happens when he goes back to New Zealand, no unnecessary sentences, no fake smiles.

It's been a confusing week. I've been happy (even when I was sad), I've been crying a lot (but I didn't mind at all), I've been having the most amazing conversations (with the most random people), I've been falling madly in love (with a guy who is home for a very short two weeks and lives about 18000 kms away).

But yeah. To be honest, I feel fine. Open, silly, calm, happy, relaxed. And loved by quite a few amazing people.

C.H.A.O.S.

The strangest thing happened at work today. For the first time in my life, I panicked because of work stuff. I became tense, I felt like crying, I was quite sure that there was no way I could complete the tasks. It was a sucky, sucky feeling and I don't ever want to experience it again!
I started thinking - why? why now? why am I stressing about all of this, when I have finally made the decision to leave? Why is this audit any different from all the other times when I had to prove myself? Why am I taking this so hard?
What the fuck is going on in my head?
I go to the opera, I cry. I watch About Time, I sob. I see my friend for the first time in five years, I hug him and my tears pour into his neck as the cold wind blows my hat half off my head. He holds my head, kisses my forehead and looks at me baffled. "Hey" - he says - "What the fuck? This is not you!" And he is so right, this is NOT me. This is a very weird version of me which I do not like at all. I'm vulnerable, I let myself fall off the track, I give my thoughts away, I drink myself into oblivion, I talk to strangers but don't really say anything. I want help, but I don't accept when someone offers. I curl my hair and then wash it out right away. I'm annoyed by everything, by the clothes on my body. I look at photos of myself and I see nothing.
It's like the best part of me has disappeared.
Or maybe, as someone told me a few hours ago, it has gone on vacation because it needed a little rest.
I'll take the latter option.
Whenever you're ready, dear best part of me ... whenever you're ready!

cannot find it

I want to write something that has
no man, no woman,
there isn't that damned
sexuality, covered/uncovered want to be liked,
no fears, legs in tights stretched out next to coffee tables in a bar,
no anger, no cynical facts that spring from hopelessness,
no humor without reason, and
no avoided, but barely scraped self-pity,
something where the disgusting, conceited, manipulative word, tights, isn't written down,
where my mum isn't there and neither is anyone else's mum,
there is no word of orphans and depression,
there is no contemporary literature and all its glory, no nail-bitten desire to be a hunter,
no free wine poured from one glass to the other, no snobs, no married people,
and none of all this shame,
no dancing, no chat window, no emotional smileys and stickers to substitue
words and feelings,
where I don't have to describe the Oh, passion, Oh, sex, Oh, you godlike female attractions,
where there is no tenosynovitis countable by text messages, no cardiovascular activity and heartburn,
no broken insulin pump, glass-windowed office fear,
no philosophical depth, no two-month notice period, no money problems,
no veiled love of life, no hatred of life with a side of cotton candy,
no dogs covered in huge blankets, no feelings covered in huge blankets,
there are no repetitions, no allusions, no hints,
there is no text,
there is
just
me
without music
until I'm bored.

Three little words

He is kind and caring. He is funny and smart. He is talented and amazing. He is gorgeous. He is a wonderful friend, a magnificent lover. He listens to every word I say as if he was drinking from my lips. He has eyes that tell stories you get lost in for days on end. He sings while washing the dishes. He dances like noone else. He reads poems to me and then talks about what they mean to him. He writes letters and devours books one after the other. He comes to the city center in the middle of the night so I don't walk home alone. He says it like he sees it, doesn't hold back.

And just when I would say this whole thing is too perfect to be true, three little words come to my mind.

He. Is. Married.

West Village and the rest

So he says he can see me in West Village. Because he has seen me there and he liked what he saw. He says he saw me be happy and free for the last time over there. Thing is, he has no idea what the reason was. And then this whole sentence just goes to show that he doesn't know me at all. Which I had suspected before, but still. My words are all over the place, I go to concerts and dance with my eyes closed. I smile, I listen to what everyone has to say, and I don't remember any of it later on. I roam the streets of Budapest until the sun comes up, and I meet so many people along the way, that by next day, I have no idea where the night had started. I sleep three to four hours a night, I discover weird things on my body. I fall in love every single day, sometimes for just a minute, other times for hours. My principles are probably planning a war against me because I have pretty much been ignoring them. Surprisingly, I can still look at myself in the mirror every morning. I have nothing to be ashamed of, to be sorry about, to keep a secret.

I can also see myself living in West Village, by the way.

A few of my favorite things

- That one moment when he looks at you and you believe that there is noone more wonderful than you.
- Talking in movie quotes and actually meaning the words.
- French fries! You can never have enough fries!
- The fact that there are at least three people I can call if I lock myself out of the apartment (which is more often than I like to admit), because copies of my keys are basically all over the city.
- The pictures on my phone. They are true testiment to my amazing life, which I tend to forget about way too often.
- Angels. In all shapes and sizes. Made of clay or plastic, in the form of people, or even invisible, I love them always.
- My new glasses. I feel like a new person.
- Ice cream. Full stop.
- Kisses in the middle of the night.
- Acqua di Gioia by Giorgio Armani.
- Happy days.
- Walking into a theater and still feeling like I am home.
- Standing in the front line at a concert, seeing them feel their music, giving and receiving.
- Falling in love with the most random beautiful people, even if just for a minute.

Saturday mood

At 11am I wake to him playing with my hair. I open my eyes, he's smiling. I don't care about what I look like, it doesn't matter what I say so I don't say anything. He opens his mouth: "Let's watch something. Do you want to choose?" I shake my head, he throws the blanket off of his body, stumbles over me and plants a kiss on my back. I turn my head, run my eyes over his muscles, the line of his back. The world's most beautiful male butt is standing right here in front of my writing desk, choosing a movie to watch. He turns, climbs back into bed, pulls me closer to him. The movie is called Last night, I see it starting, I grab my pillow, wipe off that single tear before it is even born, and I think to myself, I should be feeling a lot worse than I actually do right now.