Sometimes my thoughts race so fast and change direction like a gust of the south wind. I haven’t learned to control this, and I have absolutely no patience to light the fuse—just to set off somewhere, to try, always rushing, and I don’t even know where to. But no, there’s no train station around me where I can wait for someone, because I am the train, and I’m racing—racing along with my thoughts into the vast abyss of life. And time is sometimes so subjective, so incomprehensible, as if it were a distant memory of the two of us, lost somewhere in the time zone and space, having traveled thousands of miles just to stand right there at the very front, to knock gently on the door, and invite loneliness in for a glass of our wine. It could be a memory, something you could describe, but no, it isn’t. It’s as if it’s half full and half empty, somehow warm and cold—with you, beside you, and without you—as if you’re here, yet as if you’re not. But no, there’s nothing to fear, because if there’s a sun on the horizon, everything should be all right—or so it seems—even after the coldest winter, even after the most harmful expectations.
The truth is, February reminds me a bit of a balloon filled with pressurized air that has burst into the capital’s bars and clubs like some kind of flu epidemic. February is short and cold, lonely and silent; it has ensnared many hearts in its surreal web of imaginary love, bestowing countless bouquets of false promises and hopeless dreams. But unlike a neighborhood in eastern Sofia, relationships between people have taken a turn for the worse. We’ve turned into a theater of abstract characters, locked in the seemingly perfect reality of social media, through which we actively build positive images and paint landscapes in the ideal Instagram society—people hidden away in the shell of their own social, imaginary bubble.
I think I'm tired of explaining this to everyone, so it'll be easier for me to write it down concisely and without a shred of remorse—folks, there's no need to overthink it!
I don't want to sound negative on this wonderful day—because that's not my intention—but I just want to offer a gentle reminder to all of you who are waiting for something to come your way or who aren't happy with what you have right now.
Because I love the word “because” and I don’t see anything wrong with that, because I’m tired of searching for meaning and an explanation for why he doesn’t text me, why his words and actions don’t match up, why they don’t live up to my expectations. Is it really that hard, damn it?
It seems to me that selling your soul these days is the easiest thing in the world—everyone does it. But if you decide to keep your soul, you’ll understand why it’s so hard to do.
Whether it’s true or not, vanity robs us of what is truly meaningful and beautiful in life—it robs us of the right to truly love one another and to give of ourselves. The ego is a balloon that can burst at any moment, but once it does, you’re left in the dark for a long time. Because meaning is an element found a little deeper beneath the outer shell of those red rubber balloons; because the ability to love is like breathing through a balloon filled with helium—suddenly you can soar high into the sky, but you can also run out of air too quickly in the atmosphere.
This is, in fact, the fundamental problem with modern human relationships. We have all the information in the world at our fingertips; we have choices; we rush through life, burn out quickly, and burn ourselves out just as fast. We think we know, but we’re always wrong. Often, we’re even aware that we’re ruining long-standing relationships in our search for something more, or that we’re creating new relationships with a shelf life that’s far too short.
But why does it seem to me that we’re getting caught up in the frantic whirlwind of fleeting emotions? Perhaps because we’re afraid of loneliness, or because we haven’t learned to wait patiently at the train station.
Perhaps it’s the fear or disappointment that remain as lasting scars from not being in a relationship. Perhaps it’s boring sometimes to wait for a train with no schedule. Perhaps the problem isn’t always the ocean itself, but rather that the fish themselves can’t swim in it—and there don’t seem to be any fish around who are skilled swimmers. But why do we keep searching for it in an ocean full of fake fish and a sea of pointless vanity?
Sometimes I think my soul doesn't belong to this world, not to this time, not to this century.
Sometimes you just have to accept that you’re traveling alone and learn to wait for the right train stop. During your journey, you’ll meet many people who will abandon you along the way, who will try to get you off the train, who will disappoint you, and who will share the journey with you for a short while. Rest assured that you’ll lose your way a thousand times, but you’ll find your way back just as many times.
Sometimes you need to calm down for a moment and sit back, stop looking for the bus stop—but don’t stop keeping an eye out for it—learn to be patient, and enjoy the ride. To learn to simply be a little more Zen. This teaches us to live better and more meaningfully, to develop our skills on our own, to reflect on and understand our mistakes, because they are our greatest mentor—they’re like the cardinal directions or the schedule of that train I’m talking about.
I'm almost convinced by now that life sends us the wrong people and situations so that we can listen more deeply to the noise of our inner ocean—however turbulent it may be—and learn harmony, peace, and, above all, patience.
Waiting for the train—or, more precisely, at the right stop—teaches us patience; loneliness teaches us self-love, because what you’re looking for is looking for you, and I’m sure it’s worth it. Truth is born of silence, frustration, chaos, pain, and confusion. Truth is born from the rain, from the ashes, from the dirt, from lies, and from poison, because this is the truest and fairest criterion for finding meaning and love in the journey itself, as well as the meaning of diving into the ocean itself.
Lost, forsaken, abandoned, wounded—it comes swiftly and strikes you right in the chest like a 9-millimeter bullet. It is all-consuming, magical, and inexplicable, as explosive as gunpowder.
Love doesn't pretend to be real, because it's direct, bold, and elusive, and there's no more time to waste.
Love is like freediving—diving deep without knowing if you’ll have enough air to swim back up.
Love is an ocean to dive into, with a purity and depth of meaning greater than that of the Mariana Trench.
It is not a drop in the ocean, because it is the ocean itself. It is everything that gives meaning to every journey; it is madness.
Love is the path that merges into a whole; love is an adventure with no final destination.
But know this: my love is not a station where you can wait—it is the train racing by; my love is not a shore where you might crash—it is a message in a bottle waiting to be read.
With thousands of toasts, I slowly take flight.
