Being Alive for the First Time

What August Taught Me

The crisp-cold Scottish air filled my lungs with hope and the eternal vibrant green painted my heart with love. Celtic music accompanied my laughter and tears - while the soft rain touched my skin to remind me it was real.

I allowed myself to soak up the essence of other people and I let mine linger and dance around them freely. The spark that grew deeper and deeper with the passing of each day - lightened up my soul and rosed up my cheeks and stroked them with a slight burn. I was alive — my body, my mind, and my spirit were awake for the first time all together. I questioned what I was before and I solemnly come up empty-handed every time. I felt unstoppable.

Sometimes I sensed that a cosmic force must have chosen us to experience this. It was not just our shared love for literature and the arts — but almost as if we were vibrating at the same frequency. But what we can not explain, we excuse it as something greater, beyond our power. An unexplainable and irresistible feeling that we have met before. We were never really strangers, were we? We were meant to be here at this time of our lives. Even though everyone was at different ages and stages in life - all were bound by the same lust to explain the world that tormented us.

For the first time, I extrapolated that literature is not a stranger to psychology. As we gathered together, we brought the characters to life, by giving them voice, literally. We read aloud their monologues, to squeeze out every last drop of emotion and momentum. We defended, blamed, loved, and hated them — but above all, we understood them. We dived deep into their psyche and simultaneously our very own.

To these people, I was not a piece in need of translation, I was already readable, ready for consumption. We were all writers and readers, interchangeably. They were my audience as much as I was theirs.

Empathy. That was our main conclusion. We feel intensely - which is both a blessing and a curse. Unoriginal, but still, it felt euphoric to share the same hopes and doubts. Perhaps, it is a strenuous activity, living life in that sense - but it sure feels ferocious.

I knew that my soul was safe with them when every word had its place, every phrase had its meaning, nothing was surpassed or swept under the carpet like bread crumbs — and by the end of the day, everything was buried deep in our bones. Every interpretation was a mirror of one’s mind - and I have never enjoyed looking at mirrors more in my life.

And now that is over, I am submerged by a massive wave of nostalgia. I have perhaps experienced a lifetime in just three weeks. Time was entirely a different concept there and I do not know how that could be.

I ache for Scotland and I wonder if Caledonia aches back for me. But in truth, she lives inside of me. I carry around with me all her seeds that shone light back to me - Edwin Morgan, A.L Kennedy, Janice Galloway, Jackie Kay, Alasdair Gray, James Hogg, James Robertson, and even William McGonagall…

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It was a windy night and we were wandering around Grass Market. I had only known you for 24 hours but I swear it felt like more. At one point you paused and looked at me but you did not utter a sound. I knew you wished to say it too. Why? Why is this so familiar? We chose a random pub and you asked me what kind of beer I’d like. I chuckled and said no idea, I do not drink beer. I ended up liking yours better and you gave it to me without hesitation. I protested to give it back but you did not listen. Somewhere between the second sip of beer and the loud laugh of a drunk Scottish guy - you asked me why I was here with you. Somehow I was not intimidated by the question nor did I freeze. I had realized before I could vocalize or even rationalize it. You smiled at my response and almost sang “It was fate”.

Until next time Caledonia.