Where did February go?

Is it really already the middle of March? All of February has blurred into one vast memory, and I don’t know what I did or where it went. Outside, there was frost, and for the first time in a long while, Prague was wrapped in a white coat and stayed that way, the way winters used to be. Like the city, I wrapped myself up too, and from the safety of my home, I watched from beneath the covers how quickly life can pass by when one isn’t paying attention.

In that gray winter season, you don’t even feel like doing anything, so you linger at home, keeping your house warm as much as you can, and wait in comfort for the sun-warmed days to return. But life doesn’t wait alongside you; it keeps flowing at an uncompromising pace, never glancing back to see whether you’re ready to move with it.

February is gone, and there’s nothing I can do about that. What weighs on me more is that, at the same pace, the past year slipped away too, and the one before it as well. I wasn’t paying attention; I wasn’t ready for life. Instead of firmly grasping the reins and setting out toward what I dreamed of. I let others hold the reins and merely dozed in the carriage behind a drawn curtain.

Weary from the burden of life’s aimlessness, I told myself: I’ll just rest for a moment, and then I’ll take over again. But the gentle rocking of the wheels on the packed road doesn’t easily release a person from that lethargic rest. I let the horses pull the carriage toward emptiness, hoping that something familiar would eventually appear before me. At every new crossroads, I was lost. And so I blindly pointed to one of the winding roads ahead and drifted back into sleep. The chariot dragged me on wildly, toward an unknown void. From crossroad to crossroad, I wandered blindly, slowly sinking into a numb absence. That longed-for something, whatever might have given all of this meaning and order, was nowhere in sight, and with it, any clear direction or goal.

And so I dozed and dozed, until months turned into years and I couldn’t find the strength to grasp the reins. The carriage of my life raced on through forests and fields, through cities and villages, past seas and rivers, while I stared vacantly out the window. In the reflection on a rainy day, that unfamiliar, wrinkled face stared back at me, a hated face, battered by the winds of time, and I fumbled in vain for where my life had gone. After all, it was only a moment, wasn’t it?

It’s too late for regret, and at my age, I know it wouldn’t do me any good anyway. One doesn’t know how much longer the journey will be, whether we’re halfway through, or whether tomorrow the carriage will break down and there won’t be strength left to repair it. Perhaps it’s time to sit back down at the reins for the rest of the road and guide with a steady hand. Not because I already know the direction, but because it’s better to lead the horses myself than to be carried off into the unknown.