Virag, why don’t you write?
A ticking bomb in my soul. Something that wants to happen but I hold it back.
So, really. Why don’t I write?
‘I used to cry but I don’t have time…’ – this is the only answer I get while asking my question aloud under the shower.
I am in tears. The warm water caresses my body. I am standing with eyes closed. I can’t breath. I direct the water towards my face. I let the water wash away the drops that fall from the corner of my eyes.
It is not something new. I do this sometimes. I do when I want to hide my tears from myself. My heart pulses. My breathing is wheezy.
Actually I am happy.
I mean really. I wake and fall asleep with the eternal feeling of love. I am melting into my pillow each evening and gently kissing with the sunrise each morning.
I am happy.
But there is something. Something that makes me stand under the shower for minutes and play hide and seek with my own watered body parts. But I tend to find myself after a few minutes.
It started 6 months ago.
6 months ago I moved to New York. It was not only a cliché type of dream coming true time. It was the dream itself. It was self-loosing and self-discovery. It was self-love and growing. It was endless walks hand in hand with myself. I was endless party with my soul. A loud, busy, and f… awesome party. It lasted 3 months.
Virag, why don’t you write?
Yes, a 6 months old question. I asked it while I played the ‘who can get hold of the other’s starring more’ with the city. Needless to say Manhattan won. I was too curios to keep my eyes in one point. Then I asked it again somewhere in Greenwich Village, and under the arch of Washington Square, and then again in Harlem, and then during the ride on the F line, then on the bus from Port Authority.
I mean I did write. I wrote some stories here and there. But I couldn’t really write. I couldn’t write the way I wanted. Not that I had nothing in me to write about. No, I was actually filled with stories. Like the the Orthodox Jewish mum, whose eyes showed envy while looking at the Afro-American women’s bare shoulders. The man I sat beside while commuting from Jersey to the city, who, at age 72, was heading to do his daily job: be a private jet pilot for some rich, high-class business fellow. Or the lady, who saved me from an hour long queue and happened to say ballet as her introduction and, who since then became my Friend. But I had plenty more. I filled in over two notebooks with words, impressions, game-changing ideas. They all rest in peace…somewhere in my New York box.
So really, why don’t I write?
I feel my abilities are lagging behind the miracles that happened to me. I feel that my words, English or Hungarian, are not enough to bring my feelings out. And I don’t like to stay on the surface. That’s too easy. That’s too fake for my taste. Surely, some people get good money, fame, published books – all for their surface. But I don’t wanna be just some people. I owe my life more than just stay on the comforting surface.
I wasn’t ready to open the tap of my soul. And perhaps I am still not ready…
But I need to hide under the waterfall of my shower. And I can’t breath.
I need to write something out: God, I miss you!
I miss your smells. I miss you noises. I miss your colours. I miss your faces. I miss your tastes. I miss your people, your streets, your never-ending loud breathes. I miss the Gospel singer’s voice at 11pm by Union Square. I miss the have a nice day glimpses of the New York Times building from my mornings. I miss the tranquility of Central Park, the heavenly vibes of Bryant Park, the deserted Roosevelt Island. I miss the chilly Brighton Beach. I miss Harlem, where my mere visit craved a life changing memory. I miss the subway, not knowing if I pick a bedbug in my pocket or not. I miss the tastes of the daily bagels. I miss getting lost for hours at Barnes & Nobles reading the first pages of fifty different books. I miss the walks through Manhattan facing south and then randomly select a street and turn to the east. I miss smiling at strangers without guilt. I miss talking honestly with strangers who become friends in hours. I miss fighting for the best spots at Think coffee, because actually I really need a place to think. I miss things that I know will never come back.
I miss seeing myself in a dream.
But these are happy missings you know.
Whenever I can’t sleep I close my eyes, and I am in Jersey. I am in my little room with the window that leads to the fire escape. And I know I am safe. Every time I feel the chance that the faces of the metro car would sadden me, I just close my eyes and hear her singing me Gospel songs. Every time I feel I need a kick to get started I look up and I see her – I see the heights of the Empire State Building. Every time I close my eyes I am there.
And I just smile. And I know: I have the biggest treasure with me.
I know that I can be in New York whenever I want. It only takes a second. It only takes me to close my eyes and I feel the wind on my face while walking through the Brooklyn Bridge, a second and I feel the grass under my feet in DUMBO, an other second and I hear the poems read to me in that corner coffee in Brooklyn.
Today I missed the Upper East Side, so I had a walk there. Yesterday, I was in Little Italy. Tomorrow I am planning to visit Astoria. I am in New York every now and then. It only takes a second to go there, but minutes to come back… and I pray each time: please, God, don’t make me find the way back.
But then I hear: Deák Ferenc tér, you can change to Metro line 2 and…
And I am back. But I am smiling. I am happy. Even if deep inside I can’t wait to have an other second to close my eyes again…