[sanctuarium]

How to remember these hot days of summer, these calm evenings out in the fields, hiding far away from all this worlds hustle and bustle and noise... no clouds to darken our skies, no sorrows to rest heavily upon our minds, no deeper thoughts to deal with than whether to go with White Russian or choose red wine instead... Somehow, we used to just make our way through time, aware yet not too much worried by knowing that things might change, one day, that sooner or later leading a more serious, less enjoyable life would be what we're supposed to do... And if we needed something more intense, we always could leave even this silent sanctuary for some place even calmer, we could make our way to the forest nearby, walking through the knee-deep grass, until all the music and chatter and the illumination disappeared in the distance, until we just were surrounded by the peaceful darkness, the sound of a mild summer breeze high above in the tops of trees seemingly as ancient as the stars quietly lighting our way...

Night is even deeper out there in the forests, and, more shiny and intense than all the stars above are those two darkest of stars, most impressing feature of that gentle face so close to mine, reflecting the pale, dim light of our surroundings, and I can't help but staring at them... mesmerized... captured. "Make me yours now and forever... fill that emptiness so deep inside of me!" - Drowning in her eyes, I never really thought about the ambiquity in her request, same as I didn't really care about that certain "forever", a word best to be avoided in most situations of life then and now. The night was ours for the taking, only us and the stars and the wind in the trees. And time...

They say time doesn't always pass at the same speed, and maybe this is true. But it passes, after all, to soon hear her voice, calm, soft... "Come with me... we're late..." Involuntarily, like driven by an arcane reflex, I shake my head, to then astoundingly watch how incredibly easy even a situation of the closest of encounters possible can be broken to pieces. No more words... An unexpressed question I can read from her eyes, still star-like yet, by now, uncomprehending, way less shiny, yet nonetheless intense. And I don't have to give words to my answer, which she probably also just could grasp by reading my eyes, my face.

I see her leave, a dark silhouette against the distant dawn of a new summer day... How should I have explained that feeling that morning hardly can keep promises the night before has made us? How to give words to my fear that, ever and ever again, we have to change the warm, tender, comforting embrace of darkness for the clarity of new-born light... that by then, once night is over, we will be awake all day, asleep the rest of hours, until we have become dull and grey, unable to shine again even if we are about to taste a summer evening again, one distant day? Sun slowly rises above the horizon, and I close my eyes, feel its warmth. Could we see another way? Could we at least try?

One last breath for the wicked
One last breath for the sin
One last breath for the lost, the nameless
And those that I've forgotten

I am not sure to make a decision. Probably no one ever will be. Only the ever-present sound of the wind in distant tree tops remains as I follow her into that morning... wherever the way may lead.

We almost crashed that very day... but looking back I'm not sure about this anymore, given that, at this very time, probably I wasn't part of his world, he wasn't part of mine anyhow. It's been an astoundingly cold, grey winter noon, one of the days filled with the scent of smoke and morning mist, one of these days illuminated by the dim light of a winter sun all hidden by dense, high clouds, one of these days for people to hurry around, struggling to get out of the cold and into the warm surroundings of their offices and flats quickly.

Somehow he happened to walk past me that very day, walking with a stoop through the grey, surreal reflections of the cold world on the frozen surface of the sidewalk. He doesn't just look poor, looking at him almost makes me feel like him, feel the way his life is like in a frightenly intense way. His clothes look grey, worn and dirty, same as the skin of his face does. His hands, covered by thick, old gloves, are carrying two bleached-out supermarket bags, and for a single moment I understand him using them to carry around all his personal belongings, all his personal property in these two bags. I shiver...

Way behind him, the heart of the new city has come to life, tall buildings with roofs disappearing somewhere in the grey winter sky, restless people in motion amidst the darkness of the narrow streets, amidst the flickering, artificial light of supersized advertisement panels and shop windows. Somehow, the battle seems lost, the winners feasting upon the sad remains of the defeated, one more supermarket to arise from the ashes of a once-proud neighborhood, some more individual worlds refactured to represent the stereotypical, uniform face of the New Global World. There's no second option, conform or fall, and take a look at the defeated ones to get out of the way as everything seems to gain speed.

I look at him again... His eyes look to the ground; he turned his back on the world that's not his own anymore, looking for a better place somewhere else. And I make my way into the new day, trying to refuse asking myself for how long 'my' world still will persist...

The world seems cold way below the departure floors in these early mornings while only a few travelers dare to cross the border between night and day, stumbling through the neon-lit scenery like restless shadows almost invisible to the eye.

It's still way too early for me. I just spilt coffee all across my newspaper, now astoundingly watching the paper change its color while slowly absorbing the brown, hot fluid. There might be better places than this, and better times of day to be there than right now, but, after all, my plane is scheduled to depart at 5:45 a.m. , so it's just about dealing with an uncomfortable situation as good as somehow possible. Having an early breakfast is rather good, given the time and place, even though it mainly consists of coffee... and so I decide to make the best of it, ordering another cup while trying to get rid of my now unusable newspaper.

Maybe, again at the right time and place, the girl behind the airport cafe bar might have been a sight for sore eyes, a fairy from another world... but not now, somehow. Right now, she's into preparing my very next coffee (the one which, lacking any more newspapers, I might spill across the table afterwards), and I watch her as she fills milk into one of the arcane devices used to create what she sells to early customers like me. Though she's a thin person looking almost anorectic, her movements appear in a strange way clumsy, cumbersome... Some more people gather around the bar, chatting, laughing, fortunately being louder than the music in the cafe which is really not meant to make an early morning brighter.

Quietly, she provides me with my second cup of coffee, allowing me to catch a glimpse at her face, little longer than just a few seconds... Even by todays superficial standards, she could be considered beautiful, and yet there's something more predominant. In contrast with her dark clothings, it's not just the make-up and the neon light to make her fragile face look pale and sad - the kind of sadness to be left when another great dream fell apart, another illusion ended and things just didn't turn out the way they should. That's when you start selling coffee to strangers in early morning, forced to permanently stay on the ground where all people just are busily passing by, following their path through the world.

In a strange way, I feel touched. Somewhere between reality and illusion, I can't keep myself reading a silent cry for help from her kind eyes, feeling tempted to do all to be done in order to wipe this sadness off her face. But then again, who's to tell imagination from truth, to tell a temporary lapse of emotions from something more substantial...

The monotonous airport voice, announcing my flight, is getting me back from my thoughts. I still got to pay for two coffees and a newspaper before I make my way out of the cafe, heading for the terminal. Her eyes following me as I leave, the sad look on her face seeing another chance disappear - just a fragment of illusion, a strange effect of the early morning blues? The escalator takes me upstairs, leaving the cafe below, the music slowly fading away. My plane is ready for departure. Don't look back.