I wake up into a brand new world. I drag myself across the snarled sheets, draw the curtains aside and throw open the windows. The clouds are banded together to the infinite summer sky. It’s like a dome of solar cocktail-blue. The grass looks downy smooth. The beaked chorus of birds fills the air. Beads of dew shimmer on the satin soft petals of golden-rod yellow flowers, and the sweet taste of the fresh air is a divine charm. My mind begins to wander…
I’m sitting in the Founder’s Arm, a pub on the south bank. A young and elegant hostess brings me the food I have ordered. Even amidst all buzz and cozy chats in a busy pub, I’m lost. I’m hypnotized by the beauty of the turquoise-blue river Thames, seeping and snaking smoothly past all obstacles. As I slowly sip some hot chocolate, I observe the St. Paul’s, which stands silently in the background. With my camera, I try to capture the beautiful vista. But dear me! I sigh because this virtual replica is nothing, nothing as compared to the magnificent tangible arena. I stand and move towards the railing. I rest my arms on the bar and allow myself to inhale the fresh Thames air. Chords of soft moonlight spear down from above, bathing the surface of the river in gold. It is dazzling with little sparkles, as if thousands of pearls are dancing with an inner blaze. The watery grace of the river seems magical to me, and bewitches me in the moment.
I’m lying on the grass and gazing at the dawn-pink sky. The seasoned smell of the grass rejuvenates me and isolates me from all mental strains. I can hear the wind music of the trees, but it suffocates under the constant thump-thump-thump of walnuts falling on the ground. The sound of water running through the meadow at a finite distance draws my attention. The river sings gently, tinkling over the grassy bed. I get up and gently pluck an ember-red leaf from a nearby tree, and keep it safely in my journal as a token of remembrance. I sit against a mossy rock and close my eyes. I am lost in the bliss of my creative imagination. But my train of thoughts is broken by the pirates of the sky. It looks like a paradise. I see some swallows, skimming through the air. Another flock of blackbirds race in the sky, their wings whirring at a furious rate. I can see a falcon some miles afar, plunging towards the ground to run down on its prey. It’s a stunning panorama and I’m momentarily paralyzed by the view. I keep my head against the rock and fall asleep peacefully.
In Prague, I put on my jacket and linger by the streets. The morning air is crisp and frosty, and the light breeze is in sync with my state of mind. As I make it to the Old Town Square, I’m mesmerized by the hodgepodge of the constructed dwellings- the Rococo Kinsky Palace, the Gothic Tyn Cathedral, the Baroque St. Nicholas Church, and so many more. I move ahead in the busy street and greet, in my sweetest tone, all the lovely people travelling similarly like me. I smile and wink at a kid singing on the street all by himself. I find a group of four musicians standing by the street side, clad in black suit and a black hat. One of them plays a saxophone, the next two have a guitar and an accordion respectively, and the fourth man sits and holds a violin, a shade taller than him. They all sing merrily, and the music cheers me up. A few teen girls begin to tap their feet and move their bodies to the lovely music. I smile-no, grin- and join them to enhance the moment.
I’m perched on a comfy chair in Café Sperl, Vienna. The cozy interior gives me immense peace of mind. It gives me a real feel of authenticity and genuineness. The pianist at the back makes me feel all elegant and sophisticated, and I hum in sync to the music he’s playing. As I take a bite of chocolate cake, I try to read Corriere della Sera, and time and again, I look up in my phone dictionary to understand the meaning of all new words. I look around and observe the quiet and peace that prevails in the café. I want to write, for calm and harmonious environment is something which arouses my vital spark to do something. I write this. I think of all the places I dream of going to, and the list is endless. I feel I belong to all the places I’m writing about. Writing this stirs my soul, and compels me to trot the globe whenever I get a chance.