We Write Our Own Stories into Water
In the concrete dead grey of the city, people speed up
and down on shafts, elevated highways and channels dug
underground and water. People move with their heads
bent, closed in under the custody of ubiquitous mediocracy
with its sticky fingers, living under the impression
that they would die if they slowed down. This greyness
does not inspire dreams, but rather stifles its every effort
to succeed at its core. It arrests every effort to be free
and to live one’s life according to one’s dreams and the
desire for something which is not unattainable but seems
so for some.
In the flowing masses of anonymous touches, smells
and the sound of waterfalls in the distance, all without
smiles, albeit surrounded by their own species, everyone
seems so apathetic. They brood over misty images of
vague contours, when, as a ray of the sun, they try to
break free, outside, elsewhere, to the top, some with just
a single wish which, however, remains only a wish year
in, year out… until it is nothing but a half-forgotten wish.
This was where I lived.
How does it feel to see a bright blue poster on the
concrete advertising a book which the author introduces
with the quote: “Don’t stop dreaming. Only those who
dream can learn to fly.” How will people understand the
one who turned, left, refused to become a number in a
series with no end? We didn’t turn the other cheek, we
didn’t accept our fate or reject everything around us, but,
perhaps even more wildly, decisively and without any
looking back, separated our own time and space as a cell
from the whole…
If you look long enough into a black hole, there is a
risk amounting to certainty that the black hole will open
inside you. Is it true, however, about the other side of
the coin? It is. In every loving woman who gave birth to
a little person, looking into their eyes daily to understand
their needs, joys and fears, such a space opens up. The
woman will find a yet unknown dimension in her heart
and soul, which, jointly with instinct and a certain dose
of self-preservation, will guide her future steps. Face to
face with this black hole we can wake a stream burbling
in the spring through a mountain vale. It is up to each of
us whether we allow this stream to be stopped by the first
concrete wall of grey or not.
I believe we are a mirror of the places we live in, a
mirror of people we meet. We are like the air we breathe
and water we drink. Our pain and our emptiness — in
heart and in soul — are products of the so-desirable, so
much invoked reason which completely represses our
dream. They are products of nights when, tired from
chasing the better tomorrow, we fall exhausted into our
pillows… devoid of the courage to have a wish. To wish
anything. All of this, however, can be left.
Which of us up to their knees in slimy apathy has never
contemplated leaving? Forever.
To go! To go and dream!
From the book: DREAMS COME TRUE (2018) Blanka Milfait
Kniha v prodeji online: prostě napište, my pošleme!
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