Macedonia June 2017
Current location: In my mind, I’m still looking out of the window of my temporary, Macedonian apartment, located in the capital of Skopje. The view is amazing: Mountains everywhere, cupping my small, importantly insignificant soul in its grasp. That special travel surplus still sticks to my head like freshly-pressed toothpaste sticking to my shirt reminding me: “You were in a hurry this morning.”
And I was in a hurry. I am in a hurry. I have to see everything, and in my head I’m there, already seeing everything. But my body can’t seem to follow and I’m really trying to accept the fact that I’m a part-time realist. Actually, I think I’m finally turning this annoyingly realistic realist of mine into an advantage. I feel like I’m taking advantage of the real world, exploiting its most interesting details and using them in my own world. On that note I can tell you that I have a lot to share, and today I have the energy to share it. Even though my words tend to make more and more meaning to myself, I’m painfully aware that I still have a lot to learn. I’m a part-time realist, a dedicated dreamer and a wannabe philosopher.
I always linger on this energy in the wake of an inspirational vacation. My head is spinning more than usually (as if that’s possible), and the realization that there are millions and millions of different people in every possible corner of the world feed my hope: Someday someone will find me, and I can finally feel that moment of sheer relaxation. Someone understands me. I’ll let someone bear some of my many, heavy thoughts. I can be free at last, if only for a moment.
I sit in a bright, foggy room, like I’m in a dream. But I’m in my head. If I open my eyes, I will see sleepy people around me, their heads silently bumping up and down in sync with the movements of the train. In the bright room, I’m future me, like I’ve been many times before. This time is different, somehow, or at least I hope. More silent, slower movements. I’ve been drinking a lot of water, eating a lot of vegetables lately. I think about this as I smile into the room, meeting someone’s eyes with excitement. My heart jumps, and I hope this time I’ve found my future. I hope this time, I get the future out of my head, I get to hold it in my hand. Maybe this time it’s for real.
There are these moments, more and more frequent, where I’ve dug deep enough to feel the core of me. My inner voice, so to speak, the one that’s leaving my skin tremble with longing each and every single day. I feel, I see the core, desperately fumbling after my notebook, trying to catch that precious moment before it passes me by, as taken by the quickly moving current inside of me. I guess, all in all, I am overwhelmed by life, which is why I even now, writing this, can’t seem to really empty my soul. I lose words in the current. I multitask to activate my brain, I feel the results, like exercise shaping my body. But I’m too fast, yet not fast enough. My words drown.
Then I listen to music, and new words appear. And then, as the silent attacks me like a tsunami in dangerous countries, I see the ghosts of the words once lost. And I cry, sometimes with my eyes, because only I will know the dead words; the words that almost were. And that’s beautiful too, intimate. The kind of intimacy I’ve always imagined me feeling with someone else, I get to experience alone, with words never articulated. It’s scary but for now it’s enough. The feeling of loss is always accompanied with hope: I never seem to lose hope. Hope – and belief – that I will be able to create this world, I keep talking about, a world that no one has ever seen but many people has heard me talk about. A world of beauty and, in Paulo Coelho’s words, crazy people. My world is made by crazy people, and they steel my hours of sleep. They make me see better in the dark, and they make me feed on my misery. How can masochism be my friend? Or is it an enemy in disguise?
I could go on and on in this never-ending flow of inside-voices, but I need to remember that I’m as high on life as I am on dreaming and writing. I need to lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, music blasting in my ears and afterwards, silence overwhelming every corner of my soul, reminding me that I am, in fact, alive, and it hurts and that’s good.
My ending to this tirade will be a little insight, a quick understanding of how one of my simplest thoughts looks like. So, here it is, the confession:
Basically, I tell myself very often that I need to stop dreaming. Dreaming about adventure, dreaming about love, dreaming about very specific details of my future. Realistically, they set my expectation level too high. And, on the less realistically note, my many hours of daydreaming has gradually made me believe that I’m never going to experience any of the things, I’m imagining. Sometimes, I tell myself I’m psychic: I see glimpses of the future and as soon as I’ve seen them, they’ll never happen. I can’t have it all twice. In my darkest moments, I’m sure that I’ll never have any of the wonderful, loving experiences I’ve had in my imagination. In my mind, I’m the reason they’ll never exist.
It’s a good thing I’m also a realist, right?