Lake.

It’s hard to imagine a more tranquil place than where I am sitting right now. Sitting on the stone portion of a run-down jetty by a lake somewhere in the centre of Poland. I couldn’t point it out on a map if I tried. It’s relatively early in the morning on May 2, a day sandwiched between two public holidays (and ‘Flag Day’), so a lot of people have a long weekend free. I have the whole week, and I need it. People are only just starting to stir, but I’ve been up for a few hours now, having done the dishes from the night before, tidied up a little, made tea and come to sit by the lake with a book.

It’s a beautiful little lake. Nothing too large, perhaps a ten-kilometre circumference, which makes for a cosy atmosphere. This is not the kind of lake that tourists come to in their droves, to occupy hotels and guest rooms at the water’s edge; instead it’s surrounded by what I assume are holiday homes. I can easily imagine some of them to be permanent residences, though. They’re quaint buildings, a mixture of pastel colours and wooden veneers peeking out from among the trees, tall ashes and birches that are regaining their lustre after a long winter. They each have their own jetty; on one there’s a couple of elderly men fishing, on another, more distant jetty two people look as if they are preparing to take a boat out. Above me the sky is overcast, but it’s not too cold.  There’s a breeze that keeps the surface of the lake shimmering.

The tranquillity of this place does not come from what I see all around me, though. It comes from what I hear. I close my eyes and in the darkness there, my hearing seems to be heightened.

There is the collective sound of several species of bird; occasional twittering, constant, melodic song, that kind of scratching sound that some birds make, and the sinister cawing of a raven. There’s the sound of dogs barking from all around the lake, sounding something like a canine version of communication in Morse code. If I listen carefully I can hear the croaking of a frog among the rustling reeds off to my left, and the small ‘pop’ of a fish breaking the surface of the water. There’s somebody working on the other side of the lake, his power tools an unnatural disturbance to the natural order of things. There’s a small bird, a sparrow perhaps, crashing through the reeds looking for food. I hear the beating of wings as a pair of what look like gulls or terns rush by, perhaps ten feet above my head. There’s the sound of a pair of ducks launching themselves forward and bathing in the water. The breeze carries sound from the far sides of the lake, too; the elderly gentlemen have been laughing and joking together for a while now, and I can hear every word as if they were standing twenty metres away. There’s a tractor doing the rounds somewhere, and the hum of a generator – that one’s annoying.

I can also hear the sound of my stomach rumbling, and I feel a little cold now, which means it’s time to leave this haven and head inside to see if the others have awakened.  

I’m heading back inside feeling incredibly at peace. It really is beautiful here.

No Words.

What does one write, when the words don’t come?

It’s frustrating, really. Being in the mood to write, yet sitting here staring at a blank page, wracking my mind for just a sliver of inspiration. It’s a beautiful day out, the sun shining brightly and barely a cloud in the sky. People have a spring in their steps, birds sing and every sound I hear is one of optimism. Yet there are still no words.

As much as I’ve been pretty prolific in my writing over the last couple of years, they are just fragments. Nothing substantial. I feel like there is at least one great story inside me, one that perhaps I have already started writing in Josh, but there’s a wall there. I have the first part written, but where to go now, I have literally no ideas. I am lost, and in need of a roadmap. I’m desperate to get it out of my head and onto the page.

It’s the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. 

Stargazing.

So I got my fix of falling stars, although it was somewhat disappointing.

Standing there, halfway up a hill with the waxing gibbous proving an overly-luminous pain in the backside, I gazed up at the vastness of space hoping to feast on the annual Lyrids shower. Given I lost my phone recently and therefore was denied the help of the wonder that is Google Sky Map, I had to locate Lyra the good old-fashioned way, via Ursa Major and Casseiopeia and being actually able to identify Vega. Which I’m quite proud I can do, really.

So I did just that, found it rising in quite the ideal spot, and stood there for an hour. And didn’t spot a single star falling in that time, hence the disappointment. Although it was still a lovely hour. The tiny town I live in is deathly quiet at this time of night (midnight) and the only sounds I could hear were the distant barks of dogs and hoots of owls, and that constant hum of the universe that is so enchanting. There was also a lot of rustling in the undergrowth as I stood there completely still, of dormice and the odd sneaky stoat dashing across the road. There were also plenty of spiky new friends I made, their naive scurrying like a foghorn in the silence. One even made a dash straight for me, freezing when I shone my torch upon it before turning around and darting off to whence it came. That made me unbelievably happy. I also witnessed a local cat pick a fight with one of them. The cat lost, it’s sorrowful wail making me jump. Then I walked home, and spotted my first stars as I was climbing the five steps to the entrance to the school building. So I stood there another ten minutes and saw five more. I doubt my wishes will come true though, but that doesn’t matter really. Just witnessing such a thing is reward enough. 

And that’s the thing about gazing up at the sky, it never fails to make me happy on a core, boyish level. The question of what’s your ideal date? is often asked, and in my opinion there’s nothing more romantic than a warm summer’s night, lying there hand-in-hand with your special someone and a blanket, pointing out constellations and telling her their histories in mythology, explaining the science of those stars twinkling most and hearing her gasp in awe when you tell her that some of what she sees doesn’t even exist anymore, as it takes that long for the light to reach us, that she’s staring into the past. And then jumping in delight as you both spot the same falling star that streaks across the sky like a heavenly messenger, on its way to its final resting place. Imploring her to make a wish then hoping yourself that it’s about you.

For me, stargazing is both magical and wondrous, invoking that childish awe of everything that we seem to lose as we grow up into the cynical world in which we live. It’s recapturing that sense of adventure that drives us, on a primal level, and is escaping all the nonsense of our daily stresses if only for a short while. It’s daring to think big, of life and the universe and everything else, without any of the guilt society places on us for doing so. 

It’s absolute freedom, purely and simply. 

Fly Away.

It’s hot. The sun shines brightly, causing me to squint even through the darkest sunglasses I could find locally. It also brings on a bout of migraine-induced photosensitivity, which is not at all welcome on such a beautiful day. There’s not a cloud in the sky, save for the vapour trails of airlines ferrying hordes of self-serving tourists off to some Mediterranean isle; hold no doubt packed with cases containing garish, oversized swimming costumes and plenty of space for sinful duty-free products.

I gaze up at these planes, wondering when I’ll get to be the one sitting there, flying away somewhere new. I wonder whether or not it’s time to change my surroundings, leave this little haven in the middle of nowhere in search of rejuvenation. Have I become stagnant here, just coasting along on the winds of time, without any of the ambition and drive that should be what leads us along in life?

I remember a time the ambition was burning inside me, thoughts of ruling the world as an astrophysicist or journalist or advertising executive. I remember a time when I was ruthless in the pursuit of my goals, but honourable in the way I chased them. I remember when I was active and healthy and woke up every morning with a joie de vivre, a smile on my face that was absolutely genuine. I remember a day when I was appreciative of life and all it has to offer.

I don’t feel any of that right now, just a numbness that won’t go away. I struggle to get out of bed in the morning, abusing the snooze facility sometimes for hours. I walk around almost in a daze, not really caring where I am headed or why. I love my job, but there’s a certain emptiness to it; perhaps the lack of a challenge or the lack of any kind of advancement in it. Just coasting along, two and a half years of doing the same thing, at the same times, every single day. The sense of satisfaction I once had in my job somewhat lacking these days. I despair when I have too much free time, without a social circle to get lost in and a desire to spend time on my own doing things I once used to love. I barely sleep at night, yet wish I could just close my eyes for days or weeks on end ursine-like and block it all out.  

They always say that change is good.

Perhaps for me it’s time for a change. Time to fly away somewhere new and rediscover what it is I want in life. Be able to sit in a park and not feel pangs of jealousy at the parents I see playing with their children, at teenagers squeezing those last few minutes before having to head home, at those groups of friends in a bar on a Saturday evening laughing, sharing a pizza and having a wonderful time as I sit there at the bar on my own, just watching and listening. To walk into work every single day and apply myself 110%, like I used to, instead of clockwatching and longing for the end of the day but not longing for what comes next. To be able to sleep at normal hours, wake at a decent time and spend my days being productive.

Spend my days being somebody worth being, and happy. 

Transcendence.

For millennia, we have been separated. From other tribes, from other towns and villages, from other countries, from continents that have shifted and drifted apart and eroded away into what they are now. Separated by great plains and mountains that reach the gods, snaking rivers that sweep all away to the vast, deep blackness of endless oceans. Separated by time and space and coin, far more formidable than any of those things one has the pleasure of casting an eye over.

However, we’ve always found a way to break down these barriers. To send smoke signals to other tribes, letters to other towns and villages via messenger and carrier pigeon, to make transatlantic phone calls and communicate instantaneously with those Antipodean through a monitor, without even leaving our own homes.

Words have always transcended whatever is put in front of them.

Sometimes we need them to transcend another barrier, that of our own minds. A few of them in an inbox, send from another time, another day, another continent, just to serve as a pick-me-up in times of darkness.

However, not all words serve the greater good. There are those who would use words for ill, to hurt and destroy. Words to cause war, words to shatter families, words to drain a soul of any hope they may have had.

I don’t understand those people, why one would deliberately hurt another from afar. Or at all, really, but I see it every day. Loose tongues and malicious thoughts, escaping into the ether without a single thought of consequence. Tears shed, skin cut, bruises made.

I use words every single day. In my job, in my free time, in my thoughts, in my dreams. Never would I intentionally use them to hurt another.

I’ve been hurt too many times with them to know what it feels like. I just wish others would feel the same, and not hurt others.

Rebirth.

In the harsh climates of winter, it’s easy to lose one’s way. The cold saps every ounce of strength from you, as your body shivers to retain its warmth, your mind consumed by the pessimism of the death of life around you. Day after day of endless white, and as beautiful as that is, hope all-too-quickly drained.

Then, when the winter finally breaks, the sun makes its welcome reappearance and green starts to cover the land. Ants scurry about, working hard, birds fly overhead squawking and cawing happily. People shed their coats and sweaters and gloves and scarves, letting their bare arms and legs bathe in the golden light.

Life returns, and with it hope. Even in a place such as this, riven by a difficult past, people begin to believe again that things can and will be better.

It’s no different for myself, really. I know that in the days and weeks and months to come I will be able to take long walks to the forest where I can mingle with the grand oaks and pines that inspire me so. Run faster and longer than the previous day, watching the weight I’d put on fall off again through hard work. Sit by the river at dusk, chasing silhouettes and watching otters swim up and down lazily. Enjoy the cool breeze that refreshes in the ever-increasing heat as the season trundles on.

It’s a rebirth, and it can’t come soon enough.

Redcoat.

There’s a girl, standing at the counter. Long, brown hair, pulled loosely back into a ponytail; large, inviting eyes, brown as chestnuts. Pale, porcelain skin and cherry-coloured lips that purse slightly as she places her order. A furrowed brow, shoulders heavy with the burden of the rainy weather and everyday life. She’s short, perhaps five or six inches than myself, and slender. Black heeled ankle-boots, thick black tights to shield her shapely legs from the cold, a thigh-length and figure-hugging black skirt. Classy, smart. All accentuated by a wrap-around red coat, belt pinching at the waist, large black buttons creating a stylish statement; in a sea of greys and blacks and browns, a beacon.

I gaze upon her as I sit here, typing away on some short story that suddenly becomes insignificant. She’s somewhat shy, careful in her speech with perfect diction and grammar, softly spoken. Beautiful in all her graceful movements. She looks over at me, and it’s my turn to look down nervously. Too nervously, making it too obvious.

I wonder what’s going through her mind right now, as she receives her change from the lady behind the counter. Is she thinking of her purchase, the sweetness of cake to be enjoyed later, or of the other tasks she has to complete after her visit here? Is she thinking of a significant other to return to, or perhaps of me?

I allow myself to think of that for a moment, but it’s fanciful thinking.

She doesn’t even know my name.

She leaves, and I see her cross the road through the window. Her red coat the last flash of colour in my field of vision, disappearing as quickly as it appeared.

The greys and blacks and browns return to dominate, life returning to normal and my mind returning briefly to the short story that I’ll never finish. 

Photosynthesis.

The sun is finally shining, temperatures picking up after more than four months of a long, drawn-out winter. Harsh and unbearable at times, relatively mild at others, yet always unforgiving. A winter of bitterness and depression, of lost hope and shattered dreams. And endless winter that one comes to expect and endure, having lived so long on the fringes of Eastern Europe. An endless winter that despite everything, one comes to find the beauty in, wading through ankle and knee-deep snow among trees and across fields.

But now the bright, warm light of Spring has returned, and it’s welcome. Walking up the street to the café is a joy, striding purposefully and seeing a spring in the step of all I pass. It’s still a little chilly, but it’s a lot warmer that it has been. For me, growing up with the biting winds of the northeast coast of England, it would be nothing for me to remove the light jacket I’ve put on today instead of the heavier coat that has been my shield for so long.

As much as I love the beauty of a proper winter, I’ve needed the end of it to rejuvenate my broken soul. Needed the sunlight to nourish me. The magic of Spring really is powerful; seeing green shoot up from the dirty brown of the earth, seeing the light dance off windows and cars. The light dancing off everything until it hits me, feeding me in a strange form of photosynthesis.

Soon I will be able to run again, pound the streets until my heart is close to bursting, forcing out most of my many ills. I’ll be able to hike through the forests close to town and cycle up and down the smaller mountains that surround us. I’ll be able to sit in the park for long hours before work, reading and scribbling down my thoughts in a notebook, watching the mothers and their kids at play, watching tennis matches and teenaged lovebirds doing all they can to avoid going home straight from school.

Soon I’ll feel alive again, and it can’t come quick enough.

Wisła.

This is a long read, 3000 words, so to all who do take the time to read, you have my immense thanks. This is about the first night of my break over Easter, revisiting a place I used to live in and love, with people I used to know, about recapturing something I’ve long since lost. 

My eyes are heavy, I am exhausted. This is my forty-first hour of being awake, and as much as I just want to close my eyes and embrace the darkness that will bring me a brief respite from the struggles of everyday life, I have a duty to my three companions – my best Polish friend T, urging me to find female salvation in another town; his paramour M, frowning over her phone while longing for something more in the way of commitment from T; and K, wasted yet infinitely cool. 

5:31am, and my bus rolls in eight minutes late. I haven’t slept; T insists I get the earlier bus to Katowice, capital city of a state I used to live in on the other side of the country, as we’re to head down to Wisła, a little mountain town near the border with the Czech Republic, and he doesn’t want to leave it too late. The sun is just starting to rise above the hills in the east, and it’s bitterly cold, as it has been every day of late, in this long and unforgiving winter. I start to panic; there’s very little leeway in how late this bus can be in arriving in the city, without it impacting my connecting bus. I clamber aboard, pay the driver and slump into the first seat I come to. I gaze out of the window, before my head thumps against it. I close my eyes, allowing myself to drift off; it doesn’t matter about staying awake anymore, at least not for the next thirty-five minutes. However, they snap open again, my innate paranoia at travelling getting the better of me. I spend the next forty minutes staring at the screen on my phone, comparing the arrival of the bus into each stop with the scheduled time.

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