You haunt me still
From the desert
Above all things, I missed the fairytale-like architecture of the European old towns the most, out there, in the desert. My spirit travelled long distances, but all I could see in my mind were the historic buildings playing hide and seek in the fog, under the veils of crystal clear raindrops. With each one of them reflecting the face of God, though we both called Him different names.
Calm and still and empty were the countless days beyond the edge of eternity. Where the world bleeds white and every teardrop turns to gunpowder. Fear is constantly present 'in a handful of dust'. You won't hear any friendly voices across hundreds of miles. Hours away from the border. Only the wind tells its melancholic tales of the nameless dead. Many things come to an end there, pass away and begin their neverending journey through the underworld.
I never fully understood the nature of revenge. Or of crime and punishment. It's never just enough, there are always too many points of view and many of them, all in all, pointless. It's easy to accuse a human being, call him a murderer, a terrorist, a thief. To be able to forgive is a much more challenging task. And are we always perfectly sure that we actually have the right to use these strong words in reference to anyone, in this dark world, at all? Who am I to make such radical judgements? Who gave us the right to throw these stones? I honestly don't know anything about the rules of this life. I must be insane. I really want to be, or else my eyes would burn from things I'm forced to see, ears would burn from things I'm forced to hear. One thing is certain on this dry land - somebody's always saying 'goodbye' in the most unexpected moment.
Now, back from the Waste Land, in the town where I longed to be so much, all I can sense is the presence of some undefined spirit. The thrilling breath of winter has overtaken the spring. And nothing is beautiful anymore. I'm searching for something I'll never be able to find, though houses still have the same faces. Not strong enough to divide my world to painless and painful. Just and unjust. Only the cold in the air is constant. At night, in this Ghost Town.
The short story written by me (with no possible references to my personal life).
Photo was taken by me in Cracow, Poland (January 2011).