tsvetoslav shalev

Come near, that no more blinded by man’s fate,

I find under the boughs of love and hate,

In all poor foolish things that live a day,

Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

– W.B. Yeats

Window-shopping. An accurate description of my experience with a dating app I began using recently. For the first time in decades, I find myself swiping left and right, leafing through digital albums with less than impressive photos of strangers, and reading breadcrumbs of personal information made public. I wonder: what am I trying to accomplish here? Am I supposed to find the love of my life in this way? Relying solely on the very eyes that have deceived me time and again, mistaking saddened beauty for a pool of eternal fidelity and tenderness yet to be unlocked. Thought, unrestingly, wandering hungrily through lascivious labyrinths of soft shapes the hue of pearl-pale and peach blush, of promiscuous giggles and translucent shawls. But where is love in all this? Am I making it crystal clear that I need handling with care?

In about 30 days, it’ll be a year since I joined my current company. A job opportunity that came on as suddenly and as effortlessly, as a perchance cloud of rain on a balmy July afternoon. Apparently, I’d made a positive lasting impression; so much so my recommendation carried with it a doubling of my salary. My focus shifts… Well, this stroke of luck is soon to run its course. Absorbed into a larger entity, the in-house IT team is found lacking in one aspect not much can be done about. Yup, you guessed it – price. I’m no stranger to hard work but cannot do as much as two and a half hungry strangers. We’re in all likelihood going to be made redundant, dismissed, on the basis of trying to make a living in London. Judged without a jury or a trial, a duel to the death with pistols, at dawn’s first light, armed with nothing but a water bottle. The story of David Vs the Goliath, but a naïve children’s tale where modern corporate interests are at play. For that’s exactly how someone in my position should feel – an ant, chased by the laser beam of a magnifying glass, in a game of calculated poco-curantism. I guess that’s alright. We will be alright. I will be fine. Dreams would not be deemed as such if we could attain them. Or so I believe. Still looking for that special someone to prove me wrong. Oh, how I wish to be proven wrong.

My hands alternate between typing this and caressing a Hoki-blue teapot. Earl Grey. Hot. Scalding, in fact, but fragrant. Helps offset the cold draft from the cafeteria’s single door, kept ajar for a reason yet unknown to me. An unexpected friend’s request on Meta; a high school obsession of mine now married with two children, sending me wishes of happiness and wellbeing for the pagan holiday of Цветница (tsvetnitsa). “How are you?”, her conservative attempt to communicate with an alien. Like every other flower, I suppose – staring longingly through a window made of matte glass and 350 nits brightness pixels. At nothing and no one in particular.