My way. A journey through life from Johannesburg to Cape Town
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The train began to move, the rhythmic sound of its wheels a steady reminder of the path ahead. I clutched the small leather journal that had been my companion for years, its pages filled with sketches and thoughts, fragments of dreams and plans for the future. In that moment, I promised myself that I would honour the city that had given me so much by carrying its legacy forward.
As the Neva faded from view, replaced by the vast, open landscapes of the unknown, I felt a mixture of sadness and anticipation. The journey ahead was uncertain, but it was mine to embrace. And so, with the memory of Saint Petersburg etched into my heart, I turned my gaze forward, ready to face whatever lay ahead.
…From Johannesburg’s sun to Cape Town’s chill,
In winter’s embrace, I remembered her still.
Through long nights, I fought her, but now comes the time
To share her with you through reason and rhyme.
Through shadowy realms, where silver hair flows,
A spearless man found this book ’mid the rose.
Far from the eyes of despair or disdain,
He sat there in silence, and wept through the pain.
Within him, a dream stirred the birth of new light,
Where he walked as in Eden, in soft, golden flight.
Where love’s deepest wishes burned bright as the sun,
In a land of enchantment where dreams had begun.
Among violets and roses, in gold’s tender gleam,
Where the birds sang their tune by a crystalline stream,
An orchid emerged with its blossoms untamed,
A marvel of beauty, a love newly named.
“We were poor, but we didn’t know—we were free,”
Said the echo of ages, still longing to be.
Seconds slip past through the centuries’ span,
Untouched but remembered by woman and man.
Old age, like a whisper, will ask you to stay:
“Who’s your angel, your demon, to guide you today?
But don’t wait too long; break the net’s cruel embrace,
Rip the heart from the stone, and find freedom’s true face.”
That time has now faded, a shadow once near,
A sorrow forgotten, a burden unclear.
Time marches with purpose, with daring and grace—
Forget it, move forward; your soul finds its place.
CHAPTER 2. REFLECTIONS IN A MANSION
In the heart of Saint Petersburg, among the city’s storied streets and gilded canals, stood a mansion steeped in history. Once the home of the illustrious director Georgy Tovstonogov, it now played host to the city’s artistic elite. Beneath its elegant yellow and white facade, evenings unfolded like carefully composed symphonies, where the refined society of Saint Petersburg gathered to engage in what could only be described as an intricate dance of wit, ambition, and camaraderie.
This was no ordinary social circle; it was the pinnacle of cultural and intellectual life. Here, one could find playwrights and painters, philosophers and poets, mingling with noble descendants and wealthy patrons of the arts. Conversation flourished as freely as the cognac poured, ranging from impassioned debates on the future of art to the inevitable undercurrents of intrigue and subtle rivalries that accompanied such rarefied circles. For all its grandeur, this world also carried the hallmarks of human nature – whispered confidences, delicate power plays, and games of influence that both charmed and challenged its participants.
It was in this mansion, under its glittering chandeliers and amidst the heady aroma of polished wood and aged spirits, that I began to question my place in this elegant yet insular world. My life as a lawyer had been one of dedication and discipline, yet I could not escape the sense that something vital was missing. I longed for a purpose that extended beyond the gilded mirrors of society, a calling that resonated with the deepest parts of my soul.
A MENTOR’S WORDS
One evening, while the room hummed with the quiet intensity of animated discussions, I found myself speaking with an old friend of my late father – a man whose wisdom had been a cornerstone of my childhood. His presence was unassuming yet commanding, and his eyes, still sharp despite the passing years, seemed to study me with a knowing glance.
“You have your father’s resolve,” he said softly, his voice measured and warm. “But unlike him, you are not bound to this city. The Neva is a beautiful river, but it can also be a tether. Perhaps it is time you allowed the world to call you.”
His words struck me deeply, though I could not immediately discern why. They lingered in my mind long after the evening had ended, casting a shadow over the otherwise familiar rhythms of my life. It was as if he had given voice to an unspoken yearning, one I had long ignored out of loyalty to tradition.
A MEETING OF FATES
It was several weeks later, in the elegant office of a mutual acquaintance, that I met Konstantin. The room, perched high above the bustling streets, offered a breathtaking view of the city. Through its expansive windows, the Winter Palace and the spires of Saint Petersburg shimmered in the golden light of late afternoon. The interior was equally captivating – modern yet timeless, with sleek wooden furnishings and understated accents that spoke of quiet sophistication.