British

It was incredibly pink and grey. It was an inexplicable, melancholic, ethereal mixture of the two colors. We all fell silent. The sudden bend in the mountain road muted us all as the vast sea emerged on our left. But it was the rugged peaks of the mountain range catching our attention. Like a giant spider's legs, the chipped peaks of the mountain stretched long into the sea, well beyond the valley where the city found shelter. The spider's leg even sunk underwater, but only to reappear again and rise, rise until another chipped peak broke its momentum and pushed it back to the water. As far as our eyes could see, two or three of these spider legs rested in the gigantic mass of water. The water almost coalesced with the sky and the murky clouds, making it impossible to spot a clear horizon. An enormous greyish canvas to paint on- this is probably what the Sun thought, staring down at the scenery. Picking up a pink paint bucket, he hid behind the thick veil of the clouds and emptied the bucket's contents on the sky.
And we just stared quietly at the result. There were no beams of the sinking sun, nor the orange face winking at us for a last time. It was all too blunt and quixotic; the hopeless love that comes to haunt you when you are old and seen too much to believe that such feelings could be real. But it was there, with all its swiftly fading beauty. The spider's legs, the sea and the sky all started to immerse into the night as the Sun cleaned up the pink mess. Tiny, blinking lights of the city appeared and the mountain road took a sharp right turn, tearing our eyes and minds from the landscape.

'Oh for fuck's sake how drunk I got' yelled the chubby girl getting on the minibus. Another 7-8 chubby girls followed, their obese bodies radiating an obnoxious combination of sweat, alcohol and stupidity. They screamed and they shouted, giggled and laughed, cursed and talked, burped, apologized and cursed again. After a ten minute ride, they got off the minibus, into the night. 'Fucking British', said the chubby girl and apologized once more.

Fucking British, we all thought.

I am

I go
to a well, deep with shallow thoughs
I descend
to the hole in the ground
I shiver
as the air gets cooler
I stumble
in a rock at the bottom
I fall
on the dry soil
I crawl
towards a dim light
I find
a path leading down below
I walk
in caverns of a distant age
I stare
into the pitch black, hoping to see the light
I lost
my way and the faith of finding the exit
I sit
in darkness, still and stale, as the air
I inhale
the nothingness
I crave
the nothingness
I am.

Easy

I smell like fish. I sniff my fingers.
I had a tin of trout for supper. Soaked in tomato sauce.
I also had a fine bottle of wine.

It's cold here, though spring is in for like ten days.

But that's just the calendar.

Music plays.

Fatigue. F-A-T-I-G-U-E. Calling it like that instead of tiredness makes it look more grave. I mean, you are so tired you must express yourself using another language. Je suis un peut fatiguée!
Biraz yorgunum. Yoruldum.
I always mess up the tense, whatever.

What you never learn, you never know! Right?

When it comes to Turkish grammar, I must agree. How would I know which tense to use by just listening to people speaking? See?
But it doesn't always work like this, as it's impossible to force a universal rule on how things work in general. Things never work as they are supposed to work. Rules are stupid, Teresa! And it's a terrific relief to realize that rules, by their nature are stupid in their very creation.

*Easy*

Kid's a natural. He's got it all.

When you hear that sentence, you know you are in the right place, doing the right thing.
Dad said that my brightest talent (if not the solemn) is that people love me. That's great, right? You aren't doing anything, or at least you feel like you aren't doing anything yet you achieve something you do not necessarily ask for. Fuck my career! Why would I be the next Bukowski or Hemingway? That's just all in my head! Embrace it, Péter! You are loved. But that's pretty much it.

*Easy*

Bang and blame

My poor baby!

If you could see yourself now. If you could see yourself now, baby, as the tides turn!
But you don't, because you are too much used to be so in control.
You don't see so I have to tell you, roll over me, let me go, it's an old story, even the words we had have grown old. We have grown old. It's not my thing, so let it go.

I wish you could see yourself now. The tables have turned, your hinges held the world while it swung, while it was in motion. The screws have loosened up, and now the world has fallen out of your grasp. I wish you could see yourself now! I could even turn the screw back, as it's almost painful to watch you turn the inside out. But I won't do it. It's not my thing.

Yeah, you have a little worry, I know it all too well. Who dares to cross your threshold? Who risks trespassing your territory? Each kiss that happens to be on your way, tell me, what would you do with it? Another screw to drop to join the other hundreds.

You know that's not my thing.

All the screws from your hinges, you used it for constructing a wicked totem of a god from the past. A god that you adore, a god you will never get rid of. A god that kisses you, tugs you and rubs you, even jumps on you... it beats you and it hits you. Your god! Your love. Your only love.

So let it go! So let me go. Adore your god and get rid of your hinges, the shackles that used to be your enthralling gems once. Your world doesn't revolve around anything but yourself and your love from now on.

And that's the past; so let it go.

Millow

Hallways
I see
Always
Icy

I told myself: I can write something like this, can't I? So I started to play with words.

Pillow. Willow. Another one? Mellow? Oh, fuck that. That doesn't even rhyme.

Millow. That doesn't exist, but you know what? It exists for me. I've come to the conclusion that it's either doesn't exist and you are afraid to create it, or it doesn't exist so you create it.
Sheesh, I'm already giving myself away. Reaching the conclusion within ~10 lines.
But let's make my statement also the hypothesis of the post. My professors tend to complain about the lack of analysis in my texts, so this should be a proper moment and place to see whether I truly lack the analytical approach.

Open rooms
Contra-zooms

Orange booms. Crescent moons. Another one? I don't have any, already weakening my hypothesis. It seems that things I create have questionable life expectancy and durability at best. It's a never-ending struggle against entropy, which seems to rule not only the basic laws of all living things but fundamentally everything, starting from my room. These days I'm having almost no rest, I caught flu, so anytime I enter my room I just throw things on the ground. All these scattered belongings started to from a neat little island, which bothered me in the first place, but now I'm growing fond of it day by day. It's as if The Enemy, the vile and treacherous Entropy itself decided to create something.

Pictures may
Faces may
Fade away
Fade away

Words may. Promises may.... Another one? Future may? Can the future fade away? We associate the term fading with past things. The phenomenon of time makes us perceive it as a passing thing. Future does fade away, though. See, the things I create fade away: due to various reasons, most of my personal belongings won't exist in a couple of centuries. Most of the information I create are simply going to be erased by the grandiose and impenetrable mechanism of time. And eventually, I'll fade away as well. One day, I'll stop to exist, some people will definitely bury me, then they will die as well, and their grave diggers will die as well. But I suppose I don't have to introduce my readers to the act of passing.

Brothers then 
Get close to them
Step outside
Gunmetal sky
Peel away

That doesn't even follow the previous pattern, guys. I won't do anything with it, sorry.
Peel away! What a catchy phrase, though. I've written a post not long ago where I drew some semblance between Achilles and myself. As Homer told, he chose eternal greatness and a short life instead of dying at an old age but in complete obscurity. Does greatness stand the test of time? Does fame stand it? Is there anything in our known world that could practically withstand the grinding wheels of entropy?

Nope.

The reality is as follows: it doesn't matter if we create something or not, because it's either our own idleness or entropy destroying it. We possess the ability to motivate people on a local or a global scale; we are able to compete with entropy and some of us seem to cheat the irreversible process of it; but then again, each and every one of us will fail. We already have arguments on things happening just a few thousands of years ago- why would anyone from the next millenia think that Alexander the Great was a real person? Or, that Péter Lévay had a blog, for that matter. Things we create are destinned to effloresce and then eventually meet their demise.

Children play
Fade away
Where's the scars
Fade away
Fade away

One last thing, though. If we keep in our heads that all we do is predestinned to end, and yet we still persist, we continue creating, we keep fighting that pointless battle, we might even discover things that our normally indolent behavior would prevent from seeing.

And that is...

Entropy is the frame of our lives. The place, this marvellous universe we were born into is all within the monolithic framework of entropy. This is where we are expected to act. This is were we are expected to create. We don't have to change anything in the framework, and if we comply that and stop trying to bend the rules to our will, then, but only then we will see that creation, with all its sweat, doubt and tears is the only, only true joy we can ever experience through our lives.

Fallacy

What's the difference?
When you smoke and you don't, when you speak or you don't; when you love and when you don't. Once, you are that smoker, silent introvert, and the other day you prefer air, telling stories and loving the shit out of people.
What's the difference?

I suppose it's all in your head. The fallacy of relying upon people's opinion is the most treacherous deceptions you could face. You stretch your arms and legs, your mind and everything, hoping that you could reach the treasure, the pot of gold or call it as you like. You try; and you fail. Because they will say you can't. You won't. You aren't able to. You ridicule yourself. Your talents are being wasted. Your years are being wasted. You clinch a lot but hold little. You act like you do a lot but you do little.

Yeah, people feed on your uncertainty. You long forgot that they judge because they are unsure about themselves. Why would you remember this most simple yet very hideous fallacy? Why, if, it questions the sole purpose of your existence?

It's a war on your existence, remember that. It's an everlasting battle. A clash which assumes from the very beginning that you'd endure for long but eventually meet your expected and pitiful demise. The kind of battle that is destinned from its origo to fail.

It's a massacre. It's a massacre because you dive into it, telling yourself that there is a challenge lurking below the amassing sea of opinions. The waves of fallacy, again. The battle can't be won, but you can't recognize your direction; you keep on fighting as the waves hit you. You actually hit back, you hit strong and some waves fall; but it's an infinite ocean you are facing, the type Solaris depicted. A thinking, wise and almighty ocean.

Ridiculously enough, nobody asked you to fight. Nobody demanded you to initiate what is a predestinned but procstrinated death of your very character. Nope. There is option B. The option that you could actually stay on the land. That, even if the ocean has the real power, the land keeps you high. And dry. Sure, it's always nice to swim a little in this ocean. But to fight it? Who the fuck told you to do that? Who suggested you this idiocy?

Yeah, the ocean lured you in. You sorry, little person.

I'm now in shallow water, guys. Laying in the sand, on my face. It's like fighting a war against the ocean of opinions, but ridiculing myself for not even trying hard enough to accept a challenge. But it's fine. From my perspective, I'm fighting the same battle I've just explained.

But now both the ocean and the land laugh at me.

Black and White

People are bored of black and white things. They want shit to be colorful. They want shit to be complicated. Well, here is the thing: people, you are all wrong.
Look, I understand your need for complicated things.  You always want something chiselled, that is your very nature; and that is cool for me. But don't you dare to make me follow you, don't you dare to make me adopt your wicked creed.
I could go to lengthy explanations and make you see what I mean, but instead of bathing in the shallow waters of the black and white philosophy, I present you an example that is simple yet amusing.

Skin. White skin used to represent the aristocracy a couple of decades before. Fair skin is not cool these days anymore: women (and even men) roast themselves until they resemble a gigantic, walking orange. Fair skin is the sign of malnourishment, lack of iron in our blood or just simply lack of sunshine. It stopped being cool.
Clothing. Black clothes are widely considered to be depressing if combined. Folks will think you are either in your teenages and follow some obscure death metal group/ sect or just simply lack the basic need for wearing feasible clothes. It was -let's admit- never cool.

And yet here you stand.
Ivory skin and ebony clothes. The perfect combination. Not a malnourished death metal fanatic, nor a tasteless night receptionist.
Nope.
The dazzling beauty of two of the simplest colors.

Take the colorful shit, people! Complicate your things. Raise your standards to skies. Make it impossible for anyone to reach. Create an ideal image of your preference that is unavailable here on Earth and even god himself would laugh at the mere idea of it.
Go on, people. Raise demands and expectations. Dream of the colors. Dream that you find the bottom of the rainbow. That you find the pot of gold.

I am completely cool with black and white.

Yeah. I am completely complete with black and white.