The last flight
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“Yesterday my plane flew to Moscow - it was the last to do so for the foreseeable future. Countries’ borders are closed, air traffic has practically stopped, people sit at home or wherever they are left in lockdown and wait for news.
I handed over my ticket and stayed on the island. It was the most reasonable decision: I changed it 20 times a day in the last week.
A couple of days ago I woke up convinced that my long-awaited trip had come to an end despite the fact that I love the sea and surfing, the starry skies and the rumbling of the bike as I ride it across country roads.”
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“Scorched fields, women in bright saris and squat houses buried in palm trees, pungent smells of incense and fish, gingerbread temples and dusty, shaggy peasants sitting in loincloths along the road. Boxes of fruits in the morning and stars at night, casual hugs and ruins of colonial buildings, mysterious smiles and a whole bag of unfulfilled expectations.
All this flashed by, all this should be left behind - there is a ticket to Moscow, there is a new old plan, it is worth following.
I really loved my plans, but in those plans I lost love.
I had a clear idea of what should happen tomorrow, in a week or in a year. Many times my plans came to fruition. I was diligent but I did not appreciate plans working out and I was very angry when something didn’t. I busily scheduled the days, trying to find maximum efficiency. I was angry at the imperfections.
Only after everything was gone, I realized that I had lost something really important - love in life and not in plans.”
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