The air stung my lungs like thousands of tiny needles. Back home, the thermometer showed -8°C, but here by the forest, the cold felt even more brutal. I walked through the silent village like a shadow, watching everyone sleep. I loved these moments—a silence that doesn't corner you, but gives you room to breathe.
I stopped at the sign "Blátka Nature Reserve." Beyond the horizon, the sky began to clear, and the sun promised a bright day. "Today will be a good one," I muttered to myself and headed further in.
I reached the stream and sat directly on the frozen ground. I pulled out my thermos and poured some tea. The space was instantly flooded with the scent of cinnamon and apple. Even though it was January, life could be heard in the air—faint chirping and the rustle of old leaves. This was it. This escape from reality, from work, and the eternal hustle of the city where everyone is chasing something.
Snap.
The sharp sound of a breaking branch pierced the silence. I spun around, my heart pounding in my throat.
"Greetings, Pavel."
I stood there staring with my mouth open. A figure stood before my eyes that had no business being there.
"Now, now, now, Pavel," the figure said in a grave, deep voice, sizing me up with a look of distaste. "You have a beautiful wife at home, children, dogs... and here you are, sitting alone by the water in this godforsaken cold."
"Who the hell are you?" I blurted out, trying to look like I wasn't shitting my pants.
"I am you," the figure snapped icily. "Your inner voice. The one you buried under a pile of negativity and stress. You can look left or right all you want, but you can't run from yourself. I know exactly how you feel. You're looking for an escape because you feel like a stranger in that ordinary world. You barely talk to anyone, you just work, and then you look for something to stop the pressure in your head."
"That's not true..." I started, but the figure silenced me with a wave of its hand.
"I wasn't finished! I am you, so don't interrupt me. You're a curious case, Pavel. You have a talent for seeing things others overlook as junk. You have an imagination that could build worlds. So I'm asking you: Why the hell don't you write a book?"
At that moment, it exploded inside me. First just a chuckle, but then it turned into a hysterical, deep laugh that echoed through the entire forest. I laughed so hard my lungs burned.
"Me and a book? You've got to be shitting me!" I yelled between fits of laughter. "Did you see my grades in Czech? Did you see my essays? Me as a writer—that's the joke of the year!"
The figure didn't move an inch. It just leaned dismissively against the massive trunk of an oak tree and waited for the laughter to drain out of me.
"Think what you want," it said coldly. "But you're forgetting one thing. Your book reports. You excelled at those. Why? Because from the moment you learned to read, you lived in those stories. Remember when you started playing WoW? You immediately ran to buy the books so you'd know more about that world. And what about D&D? You weren't just a player throwing dice. You were the storyteller. You created destinies."
The figure leaned closer to me. "You want an escape from reality? Here it is. Dive into your own head and tell those stories to people. You have nothing to lose by trying."
Then it vanished into the morning mist. Silence again. Just the rustle of leaves and the distant whistle of a bird. I sat there as if frozen to the spot. It must have taken a minute before I could even catch my breath. I poured more tea, but I wasn't looking at the river anymore. I was staring into the void.
I'm not a writer. I know that for sure. But why the hell shouldn't I at least write down what comes to mind? Not now, I'll enjoy the frost for a bit longer. But when I get home...