Originally written throughout 2022

1

There are no trains to that place. The quaint old village lies on the borders of a withering forest. It gathers nothing but desolation. But the highway you’re taking leads there. And it beckons you to breathe life into its being. Through the window of your speeding car, you can feel the air warming up to your presence as maple leaves streak past you. The creek that flowed down south is suddenly gushing and you see the villagers’ faces bloom. The blossom is awe-inspiring. You fix your eyes at the village square, captivated by the gorgeous transformation. Then you realize what no one ever told you. That you are spring, Chloe. And spring will stay.

2

There is something remarkable in the way you laugh. A soft chuckle grows into a resounding peal of cries. Your face soaks in every bit of happiness that is scanty in your corner of the world. Every little calamity you saved yourself from turns into a pool of laughter. You draw your hand across your face like it has always been there to shield you from nothing. Maybe you’re embarrassed when people catch you laughing, or maybe because your laugh is a luxury in Ukhta. A laugh your people covet. But either way, you’re discreet about it and that’s your peace in a burning galaxy, headlong for collision.

3

Your eyes shine like sequins on a tapestry, bright and unmarred. Skin as pale as the snow caps of the Blue Ridge mountains, and you look “hella dreamy”. Then you wake up, groggy and disoriented from having slept in. Turning a high school senior feels like a chore. You can’t fancy having your play-dates anymore. You’re trusted with more responsibility and if there’s one thing you’re sure about responsibility, is that it’s tiring. You don’t hang out with your varsity team as much as you used to, since they play against the “loser girls”. You half wish you’d been better at gymnastics or ballet at this point, negating the possibility that you probably still are. It just helps preserve your peace of mind. You like walking your dogs on Sunday mornings, watching boys play basketball and listening to Santa Baby in the peak of winter, when leaves shrivel like your relationships. You don’t like to frequent this old fashioned website that’s crawling with “weirdos” and “creepy dudes”. The 40-something-year-old men who prefer teenaged blondes aren’t gentlemen, you know that. You’d rather re-watch South Park or gorge on The Vampire Diaries than stay here a second more. But here you are anyway, and you seem to care less every time. Like with every café in Asheville. They all taste the same but you’ve grown to live with the wontedness. As winter eclipses, the winged creature that sat on your back is no longer around. You find yourself free to transform into any seraph of your liking. That’s what’s beautiful about you, Morgan. You know where to stand, even as the ice cracks underneath.

4

Your apparel appears chaste, unsullied by curious agents. You have an eye for skirts and oversized khaki shirts. Checkers aren’t a problem. They blend with everything. Your light brown eyes radiate the oscillations of your work life. Tough times never last, tough people do. You’re the latter, you tell yourself. Paying heed to daily occurrences could be introspective, you consider. Now your mirror tells you only one thing, that you look better without your glasses. Your shopping mall visits and rooftop Chop Suey dinners tell that you miss being home in Moscow. Where the people are real, brusque but saner. You don’t fit into the languid lives of Latvian women and neither do you aspire to be one. As you walk along the Daugava, a strong urge seeps into your mind. An urge to rid yourself of your Slavic life and try American, perhaps? But you know about this world, and then the next. And you pick your pills one at a time.

5

You dazzled in the drunk Danish weather as you strode down the promenade. The clouds made droopy faces in the sky and refused to budge from their spot. Their hangover was prominent in the skies of Roskilde and it reflected in the faces you walked past. The barista at the cafe had handed you a latte after a most dry conversation about the ingenuity of modern brewing methods. You didn’t care. Neither did he. And the latte was a child of it. The scalding hot espresso reminded you of a kiss. A kiss which once sliced your tongue in half. You resisted a stiff conviction that coffee was one of many lesser beverages. It wasn’t. You had to love it. And you did indeed. It must’ve been the serving. The cafe. This place. The world. Just across the street, you met a fellow highschooler you had always been jealous of. Of his flair in the theatre which readily outperformed yours. His sheer might and sex appeal. Failed attraction had borne jealousy, although your self-acceptance had no say in the latter. You couldn’t be jealous of boys. You’re not jealous. His dog had a go at your corduroy which made you shriek in alarm like a little girl, while he tugged at its leash to keep the devil at bay. You didn’t loathe dogs, they did you. You thanked both for leaving you vulnerable and walked on. Of all the ruggedness that traced your morning that fine day, it was no one else but you who lay their bait. The instagram doll everybody admired, now heading for a plunge into the golden sea.