images by Sidi-Omar Alami
Text by Misha Bondarenko
A trip to the Scottish highlands is exactly what my mom needed to get her mind off the inordinate amount of work: a family outing, just me and her, like old times. I would show her around the country that I call my second home, I will walk tall and strong, facing the powerful pangs of unsullied Scottish wind. So I thought. When we boarded the ”Caledonian Sleeper,” a 4 pm. train going to a small highlands town of Fort William, a subtle anxiety crept up my chest and clasped my throat with cold fingers.
“The universe is so big. I am so minuscule,” I think to myself. Suddenly, I am aware of my heartbeat and aware of the layer of hoarfrost falling on my skin.
The nature of the fear is fascinating to say the least, achieved easiest when I am on public transport. No phone, no music, just me and the view from the window. Its onset comes when I let my mind drift too far away. First, let me explain how it usually goes down: I catch the double-decker bus in downtown Edinburgh and get to the second floor. As the bus hovers above the derelict pavement, I look down on the poorly lit alleyways, the hooded silhouettes and the shopkeepers, lethargically peering out of the stained windows of corner shops and inhaling their cigarettes. I think all manner of distanced thoughts. Then, I look up and I see the moons crescent, I try to fathom its actual size, its distance from where I am right now. I turn my head and look at the liminal sun, the rays hardly discernible from the ragged and uneven landscape of Edinburgh. “The universe is so big. I am so minuscule,” I think to myself. Suddenly, I am aware of my heartbeat and aware of the layer of hoarfrost falling on my skin. I zoom out and see myself, I zoom out more. Suddenly, I don’t can’t see myself any longer. The cosmos is vast beyond comprehension. Vast and indifferent.
The cosmos is vast beyond comprehension. Vast and indifferent.
Naturally, I wondered: if the mere free fall of thought mixed with a sight of a celestial body threw me into a panic, what might the highlands do to me. As the train gained momentum, so did my thoughts. “Music,” I figured, “music would steer away the train of my thought into a safer place.” Ben Howard’s deliquescent guitar melody cooled me down, making me bold enough to look out of the window. It was 5 am. and we have just arrived in Glasgow, the platform was empty. There aren’t many people who dare to venture into the highlands in late January.
The buildings became sparse, the ground began to rise, for some reason I felt like the train was descending. It was as if we were passing through a naturally made tunnel, all one could see was the rock and the odd tree or two, obstinately refusing to bend to the Scottish winds. Soon, the tunnel would end. I had to face it, no phone, no music, just me and the view from the window. The train wheels produced powerful sound waves, they hit the walls of the tunnel, they rebounded and bounced back into the window, it was like thunder. Then, we reached the end of the tunnel. It was quiet.
One has to live for the ones who care and produce something that would make someone care. One has to, otherwise there’s absolutely nothing left.
I couldn’t look away, even though confused tears tried to burst through my eyes, gaping, I couldn’t look away. I got it, straight away I got it. The monstrously beautiful highlands were there for millions of years and they will stay there. They are indifferent and indiscriminate. It’s not too big of a stretch to say that everything is indifferent and indiscriminate, that everything is just pissing in the Scottish wind. But here’s a trick I found, although, at the time it sure felt like a godly sort of epiphany. Everything is indifferent, but I am not. That is the difference, that makes all the difference. One shouldn’t care if the cosmos cares. One has to live for the ones who care and produce something that would make someone care. One has to, otherwise there’s absolutely nothing left.
