Although efforts to make myself get to read the book have thus far proved futile, I have always have a perchant for bleak houses.

At least since the time I acquired a notions of these.

This passion can be related to the crooked way I am fond of suspended chords.

In a way, each bleak house can be identified with a suspended chord of its own.

And me, myself.

The desolate presence of a not easily discernible past no one has bothered to commit to memory or mount a monument to could not but tickle my imagination.

Who were the people that dwelled that house? What happened to them? Why was the house deserted? Is there anyone still open to come and breath life into it?

Try as I might, I haven’t found such a house in Vilnius for the time being, but I met quite a few of them during my short stint in the Hungarian countryside, namely a town called Hatvan, meaning sixty in its language.

Legend has it that they did not know what name to give to it, so they went for 60 due to the distrance between it and the capital.

The talk being about Hungarian, I can believe all but everything. A nation calling a meal containing bacon vegetratian because bacon is no meat is capable of virtually everything.

Wait and see what I am capable of since becoming Hungarian.

Writing music? Sooner or later, maybe.

A misty program named GarageBand I used to have for years on my laptop turned out to be more than just a tool for recording my night-dreamt melodies when my phone was dead of out of reach.

I started experimenting with the variou keyboard options and even managed to recall, recognize and record several of the improvisations I made while desperately trying to play one or two of my simplest melodies.

It was then I encountered the notion of the suspended chord – although I bet I had already come across it somewhere along my scarce musical studies.

It was something sounding strange, almost dissonant in itself, but making a gorgeous pair with the major chord that folowed it.

I decided to take this path, the way I’d love to take the forsaken paths leading to those bleak houses.

It may bring me to some joy concealed beneath the dacaying leaves, in the end.

And maybe, help me find my long lost and wandering self.

Since there are stark similarities between me and a suspended chord – first and foremost, that bittersweet feeling of being almost there and never there at the same time.

Suspended, missing that point that could make you stand out and be one on your own.

And yet giving that unique flavour to the ambience wherever you appear, whenever.

Like a bleak house in a densely populated, vibrant town.

A lot of people won’t even know you exist. And will never grow to imagine what life would be if you weren’t there.

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