In the brisk morning, the rain of the past night drips down the roof of the almost ancient houses that makes up most of the town. When you wake up, the first thing that penetrates you is the musky and yet fresh smell of the residue of rain. Sometimes if you're lucky, the birds out in tree chirps and sings with a voice that tells you it is spring and life is good. Heck, it's the voice of spring itself. Out in the streets, the people are starting to get out of their houses and trod towards whatever that awaits their day, whether it be work, school, or maybe just spending time in this perhaps small but I'd say rather cosy town of ours. Yeah, our town is small. It's nothing compared to the great cities out there that we often hear about. Once in a while, you get a traveller, I think they call them backpackers, people who are out to see and experience life in the backstage, away from all the appearances and shiny glam of the big city. People always seem to be so determined in cities, don't you think? It's kind of like your birth is a manufacturing of a gear that will play it's insignificant part in the grand machine. Sometimes, people are lucky enough to be the central gears, but I don't think that happens a lot. Well, central means that there can't be a lot, right? Oh, how do I know so much about city life when I lived my whole life in this small town? Well, my father is a very hospitable person. He's always glad to take those backpackers I've mentioned in for the night as a favour. And in return, we get evenings full of stories that took place around the world. In the mountains, the country roads, the back alleys of cities, the cigarette butt filled bus stations, and the ones that took place in houses just like ours. All these stories have one thing in common. They all follow up to our town and finally our house. Pretty soon, we'll become characters in another story told in another living room. The story is still being written in each moment that passes. That's what they said they were after. The essence of life itself. To seize it by the hand and make the everyday into something that is worth being told. To realize every possible moment to its full worth. But then it strikes me. Am I seizing life by the hand? Am I aware that every possible moment, life is offering me his hand and if I just hold on to it, it will lead me through the colours and the melodies that we will cry to feel again when we are old and full of sleep. I look out the window again and I open it. I let the crisp air in and fill it up in my body. Have you ever experienced something so good? They say that you're alive. This is being alive. This is what it means, to breath in the chilly morning air of spring. The hand of life is stretching towards me, luring me to submit to it. Every waking moment you cannot get away from life. Even in the morning hours. Every hour of the day in every season, month has it's unique colour and a unique melody that the flute of life is whistling in your ear. It pulls me in like siren. The bells of “Carpe diem!” strike.
