I was born in the latter third of the 20th century, in a peaceful socialist-realist maternity ward in a small town near Budapest. My arrival seemed to be eagerly anticipated, seeing as the entire country was dawned in decorations and celebrations a week before my birth. (Of course, haters will try to downplay it and spread rumors that it had something to do with the foundation of the state or “St Steve the First”, but don’t believe them!)
My relatively quiet, middle-class childhood doesn’t need many additions, except the fact that despite the rumors stating otherwise, I did have a children’s room. As a young schoolboy, I was deeply enthralled by nature. According to my teachers, I would collect all sorts of bugs and insects, which to this day, hasn’t changed. Seeing my untapped, but brewing potential, my ancestors made it their sacred mission to direct it into some form of art. The only problem was that I couldn’t find the “eternal spark” in any of them. I drew, but my pictures morphed into small sculptures due to me constantly crumpling the paper. I tried my hand at sculpting… Well, let’s not talk about that. (I still have a few of my “creations.” Looking at them through my wiser, older eyes, they resemble Dali’s paintings. When my children want to ensure a good day, they take them out, resulting in fits of laughter.) The path of music was better suited to me; I played the violin diligently and could have had potential if… Well you see, you either do something properly or not at all. However, my love for music has forever remained. After my elders saw that I was a hopeless case, they abandoned my re-education with a tired wave of defeat.
**However, during drawing I realized another form of using paper… Oops! I didn’t mean that! I meant that if I shape letters and arrange them neatly next to each other, sooner or later they form something resembling writing. At first, I didn’t know what to do with this knowledge, I was afraid of it, and I hid it, so I wouldn’t be laughed at. Then I started showing it to others. The reception was mixed, but the feedback was positive. This was especially evident in the grades I received for it.
A few years passed, and due to other commitments, writing took a back seat. It occasionally resurfaced (stonemason blues, bathroom graffiti), and other writings, but their memory is now shrouded in a benevolent haze.
My life as a family-man began, followed by the now seemingly mundane pursuit of work, work, work, and more work. I left writing, art, and the wonders of the world to others, until…