Well, it's not lost, to be honest. The land once called Moravia is still there, dissolved into the Czech Republic. As of now. But once, it was the largest state in Europe, ruled by the slavs. With the land's thousands of years of history, the name Moravia has managed to slip itself into literature many many times.
The word has a subtle oomph for me. It was presented to me in a book about life whose name is lost in my memories. It had described it as this great kingdom where life was near utopian. Life thrived in lush green lands under the blue sky except for some bedouin clouds now and then. The land's temperate weather had made its people calmer. Except for occasional warfare, it was heaven, as so it had seemed to me from reading how it was described. Obviously, I am no expert on the great history of Europe. I only love reading about lands that make me feel nostalgic and fill me up with longing.
I was a wayward child. My days were spent among tall trees, and golden god rays shone through the vast canopies. With a slingshot and a couple of hundred marbles in my pocket, I used to hunt birds of every kind. Running wild on the vast planes full of small hills was what my life had to it. As I used to read about Moravia, these memories would come flooding back into my head.
Even now, sometimes, I lose track of my thoughts and start reminiscing about my lost Moravia. These days, when life seems too harsh and unbearable, my imaginary Moravia becomes my escape.
I have asked people from time to time if they had any such place that they would retreat to when all seems lost. Some could relate to it. The love of my life has one too. Hers is almost similar to mine, except for one subtle detail. Hers is a canola field near a cliff. Bohemian windswept terrain as far as the eye can see. As the Milkyway hangs overhead, she wants to take a drive in this rusty old car. While she drives and I am seated beside her, a favorite song of ours plays on the crappy stereo, and our life seems complete.
I've dreamt about this so many times, now it has turned into a false memory. So vivid and surreal, I sometimes
am unable to differentiate if I have taken that ride or not. I have never been to Europe, not even outside our borders. But the memories haunt me in my dreams, in a way so pleasurable, sometimes I don't even want to wake up.
My Moravia, it is a land devoid of other human beings. No one has access to it except for her. In the vast landscape, on a hillside, we have made our house. In front, there is a tiny pond surrounded by trees. Birds from a variety of species live there in abundance. To make up for all the birds I have murdered with my slingshot, my coping mechanism has brought them to existence. Sometimes their chirps and tweets become unbearable. The only predator they have there is me, and I'll never harm them.
There is a bench near the pond. Sometimes in dying light, the tranquil waters reflect in such a way that it looks like a dimension inside a mirror, a portal to a parallel universe. Birds in groups come back to their nest as the night draws nearer. The place bustles with them for a moment, and as the last light of the sun dies, silence envelopes everything. On such evenings, I sit on that bench with a smoke in my hand and observe my perfect utopia. Moravia that was once lost.
