máš krasného ptáka....

Here is a story: Tales of Travels; an ugly duckling meets a rusty spring.

In a land far away (or maybe not so far away at all depending on where you are, but that is how it always is with distances; you are always near or far or somewhere in between from something no matter where you are) one may stumble upon something unusual or maybe more normal than most things. Like many tales that exist in the world, this is a tale of love. It is a tale of adventure and unavoidable emotions. It is a tale of scandals and a sweet softness that one can only compare to the brush of a fingerprint to an earlobe. Like many tales that have been written and told before it, it is a tale of heartache and flushed cheeks alike. It is a tale of a sadness that will never be forgotten but it will shed a light that will never wither at the face of darkness.

In this land, however far away it may be from you, a rusty spring inhaled deeply, with all that his coils could stand, and released a slow, smooth stream of smoke. Smoking came easily at this stage in his life. There was no attention to be paid to the weight of the fag on his lips and there was no mind to be given to the toll it may or may not be taking on his well-being. Cigarettes and coffee, which often complement each other both on paper and in actuality, were part of the rusty spring’s existence. Even in the most refined of occasions he would look incomplete without one or both within range. If one were to watch him look at the world they would be lost in a gaze that carried an indescribable weight. It was filled with an unacknowledged sadness holding hands with a twinkle of wonder and inspiration. The rusty spring casually flicked the butt of his fag with a complete ignorance to the ground that embraced his being but one would forgive him because of a hidden hope that he will do something great with his life and therefore be redeemed. His walk was a mixture between that of an old cowboys’, painfully drawn out and almost unbearably calculated and hard to watch, and that of some primate, adding a fresh hop and lightness to the shoulders and toes. On this day, one could follow the rusty spring into his office. He will move as he moves on most days; from email to phone conversation, to consultation, to tinker toys, to the ends of his great abyss; the confinements of the life he willing chose because it was the only one laid before him by the generations before. The rusty spring was not unlike those in his life. Camaraderie was found among them at the bottom of each bottle and each freshly tapped beer. Friends were made circularly and everyone belonged. If anyone had anything to say about anyone else it was passed around the circles, but only behind backs of course. It was the common thread and only means of communication. Everyone knew everything about everyone but no one was known because nothing honest or truthful can ever be passed along in such a fashion.

The spring sat down, sloppily distributing his weight into the chair beneath him and allowed himself to take comfort from the table he now rested against. There would be music playing, which is not unlikely at whichever pub he may have chosen for the evening. Inhaled, exhaled, released in the shape of an O. The rusty spring looks up suddenly, he must have lost track of time, he gazes into a gaze that is familiar but unknown to him. An ugly duckling challenges him and his gaze openly and out loud. For a brief moment, but most likely longer, the future overwhelmed them equally. The sacrifices revealed themselves and the throbs of feelings were felt. They secretly lived a life together within those moments and it wasn’t shared with anyone. Within those moments they created their own circle that exceeded the limitations, the expectations, and the generations before them. They lived through the hard times, they held each other tight and walked hand and hand. They traveled lands down under and built a home. They fled for the sake of love and did so unabashedly. They watched each other through those moments grow old and saw it through to the end.

Everyone knows that springs and ducklings are never meant to be. Springs are made to get rusty and ducklings are made to fly. The gaze was lost. The rusty spring watched the duckling stand up to leave. There was a feeling of pain and a small window of opportunity to stop her before she reached the door, but he ignored all that was irrational and let her go. It ended before it started which is much better than starting something and realizing that all it can do is end.