elzazi's mundo

 

  (source: reddit https://www.reddit.com/r/Art/comments/6ud3e9/half_man_half_deer_9x12/) My father was a reindeer and my mother a human. Well, I wish it was that simple. I am a half-bred but it has its price. We, half-breds are on the verge of society and we are forced to live in the forests, collecting berries and fruits to keep ourselves alive. You can protest against society but whatever menial living is still a living – unless you are ready to die. According to my mother, father used to be a human, too. One day, he was driving his car when a reindeer crashed into it. He was supposed to die in the accident because the deer’s antlers broke the car window causing lethal injuries in him. But instead of blood, some silvery slime was pouring out of his veins, covering his injuries. He looked dead for a moment, but suddenly shook himself alive and roared. His face shapeshifted first: his nape lengthened, his chin fell forward and his nose grew. His skull grew his own antlers. He ...

       At the village, there was a legend that he was born in the river. Once, a toddler-form child just emerged there, or at least, that’s what they told. They never saw his mother pregnant, but the folk saw her play with a toddler. He was taken to the riverside every afternoon.      And that remained his favourite place – even though he had long after moved into the noisy city. His favourite place was close to the river: that was his getaway, his hideout when life was too much to bear. He loved watching the waves and tides for hours and not doing anything. Not doing was a thing back then. Somehow that river symbolized life to him. It was stable, unchanging, flowing continuously, no matter what: he could have changed his career, wife, city, could have gone off to the wrong path, but that river always calmed him down.       Not doing was a thing back then: it wasn’t empty doing actually. His mind was running in waves, as well, toget...

  Limestone The sculptor of limestone is subtly touching one or two parts printed on her fingers she knows the sculpture knows it knows it takes time to grow... What if our characters all have a limestone sculptor, too and we grow slowly according to raindrops on tops too slightly touching gentle souls wash against ours? What if we are all limestone sculptors just not ours but for other souls? Patience pays rush nowhere salt crystallizes on your character.

  Ne mérd Hó vagy tehát. Ne mérd magad az esőhöz se szélhez, ne, ne mérd az idő fokát. Eső. Ne mérd magad a télhez, te zöld életet adó magát viharnak, s hónak hazudó, ha hazudó, ám ha kell, hazudva is de tápláló életet adó erő vagy. Szél. Ne mérd magad a szellőhöz legyen bár könnyed legyen a Te könnyed esőt hozó vagy tavaszt, szerelmet vágyat talán. Ne mérd, nem érdemes. Ember. Ne mérd magad, nem érdemes. Gyermek lehetsz, játékkal figyelemmel, vagy felnőtt, ki irányít országot embereket ne mérd magad ezekhez, nem érdemes, Te ugyanúgy egyedi vagy hálás, hogy lehetsz. Gyermek. Játékaidat ne mérd máséhoz mert pont ezért te játékaid azok akik Neked teremtettek: játsszatok. Művész. Ki fest, ki énekel, balladát írogat, ki kiállítást nyitogat, ki könyvét csomagolja össze mert nem kell kiadónak egy se, ne mérd, sikered fokát az idő fogát a művészet ármányát, a tehetségedet, ne mérd. Gyémánt. Csiszolt-csiszolatlan, búvik, meglapul a sarokban, a kés beletörik, de követ morzsára darál. Ne mér...

When she picked it up in the second hand’s bookstore, where she was just browsing anyway and had no intention to stay longer, just waiting for her train, she involuntarily grabbed that book. It was thick, its cover has been run down already, couldn’t be seen it clearly was it a street or a house on it? It looked quite interesting, the writer was Maeve Binchy and the book titled as Tara Road . It was about a woman’s life, mid-forty, after divorce – exactly like hers: built up and then crushed down to nothing. She hurriedly took it, paid – almost blushed – how dare she buy a book that relates to her life this much – and left for her train. Only at home she noticed the note on the first page. “Take me to Budapest, to Gozsdu square on August 19th”. That’s interesting. What would an English-speaking book do in the heart of Europe? Anyway, upon returning home, she put down the book and whenever she had time for it, she read a small part or chapter. She quite enjoyed it, she could reflect on...