View from the window

Is the end of the world the place where the human world ends?

Or rather the point where the wilderness first contacts the danger of the city?

Look into the night! A snow flake slowly falls over a frozen river. Among white-covered meadows, invisible in the darkness of the night, in the lights of the cities many kilometers away, luminating nothing expect the hotizon line, nobody notices the ephemeric beuty of its fall, its glow and its stellar cristalline structure.

Imagine that your life scale, I wonder if you can, the scale of your time, and scale of your space, and alike all the world, is enclosed in a snow flake; and the existence of our civilisation altogether is just the short time of the snowflake fall. Open your eyes! You are now a citizen of a snow flake!

A pyramid with a base of star dodecagon inscribed into a regular hexagon, circumscribed on a concentric, also regular, hexagon with the edges of the half length of the outer – in short, the mathematical beauty of the symetry of a snow flake – that is your room.

You wake up, open your eyes, pleased by soothing whiteness of the walls. You look at fractal patterns of ice sparks covering the walls and rub your eyes in astonishment. Something miraculous is in the air. Check what a feeling is it!

My mood is getting defined by a synaesthetic feeling of the taste of a milk chocolate.

– I am filled with a feeling of the taste of a milk chocolate! – I shout throught the window in my thoughts, but do not shout in the real world as one could hear me and as always ask Why do you shout like insane?, and as always would reject the obvious answer that – simply – I am insane.

Therefore I only gaze blindly into the distance. The orchard sleeps silently in the darkness of the night. The meadow is veiled in vaporous mist. The trees by the river stand in nearly invisible green. The road behind the river is not visible at all. The smokes from the chimneys lay low above the fields behind the road. Next is a hill, and what is behind the hill – I do not see. Further is only the horizon with dark silhouettes of trees and mildly orange glow of the city. Above the forest is single red dot — the light on the top of a power plant chimney. Further above, the sky is purely orange of distant city lights. But if you rise your head and look really aloft, the orange transits smothly into indigo or even ultramarine.

I cannot decide, should I close the window, or open it? If I close I will feel airless shortly. But if I open I will feel cold soon. So maybe open it only a bit?

Unveil the curtains or rather shut it? If I unveil I will feel on my body, the possibility that neighbours could see me. But it tempts irresistibly to let some light in. I do not know…

I cannot decide, should I write here anything more, or not?

The chimney smokes lay in flat, even layer low above riverside fields. A piece of waterside meadow is covered in a morning mist. Everything around is full of dew, miraculous dawn and sounds of awakening swamp birds. The air is somehow humid and full of silence, happiness and astonishment.

Sometimes in the morning one can hear here cranes; whereas in the night the meadows resound with tree frogs squawks. By the noon, it happens, among the meadows walks a stork. Sadly, in the evening the only sound is insane barking of village dogs.

But if you want to escape that overly civilised sound (as for rivers confluence meadows), you can turn back from the city, walk the streets of the village; pass the bridge, crossing, lake; and venture into the forest.

This place is defined by an incessant splash. It is a small stream flowing into the lake. Here water undermines tree roots. Ground around is moist, humid, muddy. Only the bank is stable, thanks to the roots of nearly tree going toward water. A wooden slope or platform created by them makes the place charming. Other trees are also close to the water descending their branches toward the surface. But what really catches the eye is their boughs. One can climb them, it seems, through slats nailed to the tree as an improvised ladder.

The crack of dawn wakes the first birds. They start to sing.

During the day this place looks completely different. The clarity of water reveals in morning sunrays that here the lake is deep even by its very bank. Standing on the thick roots suspended above the water; below the waving surface you may see branches spread on the bottom. The water is only one meter deep at the shore but just a bit further surely one may easily drow.

Lamps of a distant road shine in a distance by the lake shore. Their light gets reflected by the water into a shape of tremulous golden stripes. Surface is still. You are surrounded by trees but in the darkness you see them only as a dark outlines on a cerulean sky. Listen to the night.

The immensity of grass waves steadily in a mild wind. Rigid yet thin as a needle stalks of the xerophytic grass look from a distance like a waving image of a hot sand or the reflections on a compact disk, golden and twinkling.

Somewhere in the distance, in that sea of the grass, like an ondine on the surface of a lake, on her temple having a wreath of dried meadow flowers, smiling gently, in a gauzy dress in colors of the summer, blowing the dandelions dances her – the alluring femme fatale.

Somewhere out there in the fields is her home. Does she dance in the morning among the grass, or just stare at the silence in a window, like me?

Unfortunately, I cannot see that, the fields overshadow her home, the fields up to the horizon, up to the city, the fields until the grove. And riverside meadows, and riverside forest.