The Scent of Snow

The theater play "The Slavs", I went to see prior my departure from Vienna, had also another meaning. The end of a utopia. It was quite fitting. May be!

Once we had the strength that provoked fear. It changed lives. But now we have come to be forgotten.

I found myself in the city between East and West. The way in which in this place, the time and history intermingle; it makes it impossible to think about the center and periphery. Everything is center. Everything is periphery.

There’s never been any center. No path. No line. There were only great spaces.

Low clouds, gray fog, and pieces of earth covered with snow. This city once used to be the capital city. Long lines of socialist apartment blocks. They appeared grayer, than I want them to be.

It is the end of the day. You can tell by the sound of voice. The night is beginning now with the setting sun.

He said, come straight to me. When prior arrival, I asked if I can meet him immediately upon arrival, be paused a little, and replied. In principle, yes! I was disappointed. But only for a moment. It meant yes. Even though - in principle.

Again long lines of gray apartment blocks. It’s not the shoes. But my suitcase.

I walk in "his" street up to number 11. He awaits me with door opened. He is looking at me, and says

Are you alright?

The journey was long, I hasten to reply. Like struggle against the sea. Immediately after, he says, I have grown old. My hair has turned white. As if I would not see. I do not want to see.

I have crossed countries, journeyed from one world to another. Crossed borders of acceptable and forbidden, for this meeting.

Where I come from now, the people have faces in the shape of their mountains. And those mountains I loved. It meant being free. Dusk fell at the same time all the year around. The blue was more distant than the sky beyond all depths, covering the bonds of the world. The light fell from the sky and even the air was blue. There are sellers of jasmine. Slender. Fast. Merchants of incense and - dizziness.

In between are twenty years.

Mine.
His.

Does it count if one is so long happy in his dreams?

As we would say good-bye only yesterday. We continue this meeting from yesterday. It is both different and the same feeling. Hidden stretches of events that were buried.

What happened in between?

In between history returned and laid down laws as how and where we live and should live in reality.

Life is defeat.
Hell became others.
I may never see him again.
Where is he?
What they have done to him?