A wooden bench guards its shadow

The beauty of what we might call “slow travel” or “lazy travel”, where the joy of the journey intertwines seamlessly with the thrill of discovering wonder. In this dance, each detail holds equal weight; for instance, when in Paris, it is essential to behold the Eiffel Tower, yet one must not overlook the charming little details scattered throughout the corners of the city.
Take, for example, that wooden bench which stole me away from my excursion on that particular day, compelling me to share with it fragments of its stories—tales that it seldom reveals. A wooden bench in a public garden stands resilient in winter, like an old man awaiting his grandson, who comes from the void of war, as snowflakes gently fall upon it. Alone in this
frost, no one sits beside it, nor does anyone expect a distant greeting. It remembers the people, their flushed faces and sticky skin in summer, their joy in spring, and those things that autumn’s rain and its cool breeze usually bring. Yet in this snow-laden winter, it resembles a retired military general with no one intending to send it any correspondence. Still, it recalls all the passersby with its wooden indifference:

— The elderly woman who made sure no one preceded her to it, sitting patiently under the sun’s first warm rays, cradling her elegant bag while observing the crowds. She spends hours passing without genuine joy, and before departing, she pulls out a small bottle of water and various pills from her bag, leaving for another day that binds her to memories.

— Lovers, secluded upon it, whispering to each other like two doves, basking in the glow of their youth, exchanging boundless affections, perhaps etching their names into its wood alongside a heart they wish would beat with their warmth, their meetings, and their shared memories.

— An elderly couple in the autumn of their lives, wrapped in garments they remain loyal to, and with a cane for the old man who hopes to depart this life before his wife, wanting not to leave her grieving alone, nor to endure the sting of separation after a long journey together. They have carved their memories into this very chair.

— The neighborhood drunk, intoxicated by life and perhaps by betrayal that has corroded his insides, finds refuge on this bench when he seeks sleep, leaving behind a nearly empty bottle beneath it and a half-empty bag that represents his existence. He sprawls across it, hoping to awaken from his perpetual haze, perhaps recalling fleeting moments of his disrupted life.

— A destitute migrant, clad in rags, sits here to write a letter that may never reach his distant homeland, assuring his family that he is still alive, yet goes without sustenance. He wonders whether his beloved still waits for him with loyalty, whether his mother’s cough has subsided, if his father remains unemployed and helpless, and how his sisters fare—whether they still find shelter under the family roof.

— High school girls, returning with their backpacks and white shirts, chatter about the dreams of youth, whispering about a singer whose images light up billboards. They pause to listen to romantic songs through their earbuds, sigh, then suddenly remember the time, and rush away, their shouts beginning to flavor the air with youthful femininity.

— An artist, pulling a white notebook from his leather bag, begins to summon lines and colors amid the smoke of a barely extinguished cigarette. He shifts his legs repeatedly on that bench, luminous with the joy he feels when he accomplishes something that brings him happiness; suddenly, those blank pages come alive with the colors of life.

— A writer, observing faces, clothes, and the shuffle of feet, appears bored as a wolf, trying to lull his poem to sleep.

— A divorced woman pushes the stroller of her only child through this void that has wiped away her tears since she closed the door behind her forever.

— A musician weeps on his violin strings, like an abandoned child.

— Two elderly folks lean against each other, relying on the remnants of their fragile bones, counting steps toward a solitary, distant bench, guarded by the shadows of the park, while it, in turn, guards its own shadow.

Dear readers, “Lovers of distant and profound travel”: This is the slogan of your magazine, and we hope this will be your motto is in travel, as well. We journey to far-off places to uncover the depths of existence. How beautiful it is to read the details of the things we see, compelling us not to rush past them so swiftly. Even more delightful is the endeavor to fill the gaps between the elements of life, and in doing so, we impart two values to our journeys: the joy of travel and the contemplation of life and all its existences. We ponder our place within it-are we truly a part of it?