The Waves. © 2013 Dariusz Janczewski.

(This is only an excerpt from the story — for full version, please visit my Patreon site here)
On a moonless night not far from a beach, two dry pieces of wood are picked up. 
They are rubbed together and generate a spark which ignites a fire. 
The destructive wave of the fire consumes both pieces and ends up as a 
pile of ashes. New life percolates from the ashes. The seeds grow to become young trees.
The trees mature and propagate — not necessarily in the same direction 
and with the same vigor, but their unique beauty is impeccable.
A microscopic particle of time passes. The trees get old and dry up.
They fall to the ground. Someone in need of comfort and security picks them up,
rubs them together and starts a fire. A new moon emerges from behind the clouds. 
New waves hit the shore, each one different from the other, 
among the misleading sameness of the ocean.

I was a piece of wood surfing the wave of life. I was ready for a new chapter of my life to take its course, and then unfold into something vaguely familiar but also unknown. I was sitting in the front row of a cold, drafty bus, full of passengers calcified by the predictability of yesterday’s tomorrows. My eyes just looked outside, not really seeing; my hands rested on my knees, not really feeling anything. The surf approached the shore. My sight was fixed on the place I would soon reach. Unable to turn around and see the great waters behind me, I was ready to face anything imaginable that lay ahead.  I knew that sooner or later I would end up on that coast anyway. 
Southwestern Poland. Late October 1980. Cold and snow-less fields prepared for the impact of winter. The landscape outside the moving bus was reassuringly barren. The trepidation of the laden skies excited me. The bus’s interior smelled of gasoline fumes and the unshaved armpits of small-town etiquette. The bus was moving fast. I was a traveler reveling in the bone-cold melancholy. Dark amber browns of the leafless trees complemented their flora which decayed underneath. 
I was thinking about my running friends back in Olkusz — was this the finish of our friendships? My coach — was he accepting the fact that he had lost his best prodigy forever? My girlfriend — was she a figurehead? Staś — how was he holding up after not getting accepted to the Art Academy in Krakow again? And my mother — was she still busy mending herself, after being forsaken by her one and only, worst-ever, husband. My mother was searching for a new safe harbor. Unfortunately for her, she was ignorant about the cursed lighthouses: They were not operational at night. 
The bus stopped and the passengers scuttled onto the streets of Prudnik like ants looking for safety after abandoning a disturbed sanctuary. I was told by the bus driver to walk in the direction of the army barracks which were towering over the town’s decrepit architecture. Just by looking at me, he knew who I was and what my business was here. 
(This is only an excerpt from the story — for full version, please visit my Patreon site here)
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