Awakenings

In the basement of a Czech supermarket "Tesco", crowds move. It is 6 pm. The people crowd and race through the isles, groceries in hand. Coming from the ant farm, the ants move back and forth through the store, gathering provisions to bring back to the places they call home. Overhead, an aged Scorpions song accompanies their dance.

"Here I am. Will you send me an angel?" The song repeats its chorus.
"Here I am.."
"In the land of the morning star."

And so I move with them. I pick up the meat and the wine and the butter and the bread and search for the register that is least popular.
And so I move with them.

On the way home, the tram is crowded. Somebody’s dog is barking. It is going through the crowd, back and forth through the tramcar. I break it off a small piece of bread. It sniffs me, sniffs the bread, and grabs it to bring to its owner for inspection.

At home, my table is filled with pages. Pages that I myself hope to send back for proofreading. I sniff through them and make my way back and forth through the apartment chewing on an unlit cigarette.

Outside, the first spring rains are attempting to descend. But the air is still cold, and the raindrops turn into grey flakes of icy residue. Not one raindrop makes it down.

It gets dark, and I turn on the table lamp. It gets darker and I turn it off. It gets darker and I sleep.

It gets darker and I sleep. Within my closed eyes, it gets darker still. In the darkness, I search for words that once seemed so close. I search for paints that once seemed so fresh. In the darkness I search for places where I saw these words last.

And so we travel within ourselves - nomads in our own strange and alien world. We travel from the islands of madness to the ocean shores of peace. We travel from the deserts of insecurity to the mountains of loneliness. But we keep crossing our feet through the dust.

But we keep crossing our feet through the dust. Somewhere in our darkness we remember that there are rivers of inspiration that run through the mountains. And in the deserts, there are oases where words spring up from the dry earth.

And so we keep crossing our feet. Hopping from island to island. Crossing border after border. Checking into city after city.
In the dark, we do not see our own blindness.

To anyone reading this who is searching for their own oasis:
I dedicate this post to you.

Keep walking.


-V