The last day of this extraordinary year finds London once again in lockdown. From my window, I watch the Thames carry the fading light of 2020 toward the horizon. There’s something appropriate about ending this year in quietude, in this liminal space between what was and what might be.
If someone had described this year to me last December, I would have dismissed their prediction as dystopian fiction. Yet here we are, having collectively experienced a fundamental reshaping of daily existence. The fragility of our systems has been exposed, along with our remarkable capacity for adaptation.
For me, this year of disruption has clarified something I’ve long suspected but hesitated to fully acknowledge: writing is not merely a hobby or distraction—it’s essential to how I process and inhabit the world. When everything else was stripped away, when lectures migrated online and social gatherings became memories, the blank page remained a constant companion.
I’ve written more this year than ever before. Some of it was an attempt to make sense of chaos, some an escape from it, and some simply a way to mark time when days blurred together. But all of it felt necessary in a way I hadn’t previously experienced. Writing wasn’t something I did; it was something I needed.
This realization has shifted something fundamental in how I see my future. The path toward corporate marketing still stretches before me—sensible, structured, secure. But running parallel to it is another path, less defined but increasingly compelling. I don’t think it’s a matter of choosing one over the other anymore. Instead, I’m beginning to envision a life where these paths intermingle and inform each other.
Tonight, as the clock counts down the final hours of 2020, I want to share a poem I wrote earlier this year. “Ballad of the White Rose” reflects both my fear of the uncertain future and my stubborn hope for renewal:
Баллада о Белой Розе
Давным давно, владел страной колдун,
Свирепым был властитель темных рун
И только лишь цветами был пленён –
Садами алых роз украсил каждый склон.И день и ночь трудился бедный люд,
Жизней не жаль, пусть лишь сады цветут.
И хвалится колдун на весь придворный свет:
Прекрасней моих роз, соцветий больше нет!Но вот однажды странник к замку подошёл,
В руках светился цвет, как звездный ореол.
То роза, что была белее северных снегов
Снов сказочных волшебней, нежнее дорогих шелков.Колдун, завидев лепестков священный свет,
Промолвил Страннику: “Поведай свой секрет!
Где вырастил ты розу белую, как снег?”
Но странник отказал, не дал ему ответ.О, роза, белый дух теней,
Прекрасней тысячи огней,
Где дом, где сад твой
Скрыты во тьме земной?Был странник тут же пойман, тюрьмы не избежать
Но тайну розы, колдуну не смел он открывать.
Молчал, как камень, чужд словам измен
В темнице заточен во мраке черных стен.Колдун был зол, хотел он белых роз сады.
Как ни старался люд – цветы всё не росли.
И день за днём любовь его безумцем стала,
И розой одержимость на части сердце рвàла.Погиб колдун, огнем той страсти был сожжён.
Народ возликовал, и странник был спасен.
У трона встав, где пуст был пьедестал,
Вдруг тихим голосом спокойно он сказал:О, роза, белый дух теней,
Прекрасней тысячи огней,
Теперь отвечу я, где твой
Сокрытый дом во тьме земной.Белая роза – призрак сердца,
В мире живых ей не было места.
Взошла из мрака великой бездны
На могиле твоей мертвой невесты…
Having once written it in Russian, I spent hundreds of hours and sleepless nights to adapt it into English.
Long, long ago, a wizard ruled a land,
A tyrant forging runes with fierce command.
Yet only blossoms ever tamed his soul;
He decked with crimson roses every knoll.And day and night, the toiling peasants wrought—
No life too dear that would not serve his plot.
The wizard boasted loud for all to hear:
“No rose outshines my blooms, both far and near!”But one day came a traveler to the keep,
Within his hands a glow like stars in deep.
A rose more white than northern snows could gleam,
More wondrous than a fairy realm in dream.The wizard, seeing petals blessed with light,
Demanded: “Stranger, share your secret’s might!
Where grew this rose as white as winter’s glow?”
But silent stood the man, refusing so.O Rose, white spirit of the shade,
More splendid than a thousand flames displayed,
Where is your home, your secret bed,
Hid in the gloom of earthly dread?They seized the traveler, jailed him on the spot,
Yet not a word of roses would he plot.
He stood as stone, refusing to betray,
Imprisoned in the dungeon’s pitch-black gray.Enraged, the wizard craved white rose-filled fields;
Yet though men toiled, no blossom bent or yielded.
Day after day, his love turned to a mad embrace,
Obsession tore his heart in twain apace.At last he perished, scorched by passion’s flame;
The people cheered—the traveler freed of blame.
He stood before the throne, its dais bare,
And softly spoke these words into the air:O Rose, white spirit of the gloom,
More splendid than a thousand flames in bloom,
Now shall I answer where you bide—
Your hidden home in earthly night.“The White Rose is the heart’s own ghost,
It finds no place among the living host.
It rose from darkness of the grand abyss,
To bloom upon your dead bride’s grave in bliss…”
I don’t know what 2021 holds. The pandemic continues, uncertainty remains, and many challenges lie ahead. But I enter this new year with a clearer sense of purpose than I had twelve months ago. Whatever career path I ultimately follow, writing will no longer be relegated to the margins of my life. It has earned its place at the center.
To anyone reading these words: may the coming year bring health, clarity, and moments of unexpected beauty. May we carry forward the lessons of this difficult time without being defined by its hardships. And may we find, as Camus suggested, that “in the midst of winter, there was within me an invincible summer.”
“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” (Anaïs Nin’s words feel particularly resonant tonight)