24 June, 2012

When no change IS a change

waiting for the tram

I haven't changed yet. I don't really want to change. I am very good at being myself, I'm really unprepared for being anybody else. Maybe that's the trouble with me. But that's my biggest blessing, too.

I haven't walked these streets for four years. Four winters, four summers, four springtime jazz fevers. Red and yellow leaves times four. My friends are still around. I keep them close and keep telling them the city has changed beyond recognition  They haven't seen the change that I am talking about. They say that the change is within me. I say no, I can see that there are more shops, more refurbished buildings  more young people, more happy people, more relaxed and content people in general. Also more rushing people, more traffic, more nervousness, more fluid. Much more than before.

I think we always cried for change, and when we finally accepted the way we were, the change arrived. Individually we're all the same. The change was born within a group, in the society. The evolution, the step forward, learning to say yes or no. Maybe it was a part of my growing up as well. Maybe I'm biased because it's my city.

The walls that speak the language I understand. The writings on the tram stations. The ink that has spilled over the city pages. I feel like walking the pages of a living book. The walls keep telling me things I understand clearly. Some people only see the book cover, I have browsed or read the most of the pages. It's impossible to describe something big without describing one tiny part of it first, one tiny detail. Tiny waves that keep pushing me through the city, the waves of the analogue reality and the etchings on the tram seats. I remember how to use my antennas, how to tune them in. Unchanged, I walk on and read.

The chains hold the unchanged city together. It wakes up early, yawns behind the steel and steam, behind the sleepy soft curves of the foggy dusk. The dirt is in his nostrils and in his ears, if it could kiss you it would leave a greasy and dirty mark on your face. I mean if it wanted to kiss you. The old world is still very alive: posh and grumpy old lady and a dirty gypsy kid walk the same side of the street with the biggest grin make a perfect couple - this is the old fashioned at its best. The pavement is hot, the sweat is oozing through the sprayed crumbling walls. The young and the mellow ones are scattered everywhere, the heat is in the swaying blossom of the linden trees, and the melody will find its way. Until then I read on.

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