The morning dawned bright and unseasonably warm, as if summer had elbowed its way into spring with unapologetic gleam. Buttery sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtains, painting tiger-stripes of gold across the bedroom floor—nature’s own sly invitation to rise. Not a single cloud dared blemish that cerulean sky; the air hummed with the kind of stillness that presses against your skin, thick with promise. It was the sort of day that made you throw open the windows with both hands, as though the world itself might climb in and join you for tea.

Outside, the birds were mid-performance, a symphony conducted by some unseen maestro. A cocky robin, chest puffed like a prizefighter’s, trilled from the garden fence, each note piercing the quiet like a flute’s staccato. Beneath it, the wood pigeons offered their drowsy refrain, their cooing as slow and sweet as treacle dripping from a spoon. Nature’s wireless, you might call it, tuned eternally to the hits of the season. One couldn’t help but grin, listening—though the joke, of course, was on us. They’d been singing this way for millennia; we were merely the audience, late to the show.

By midday, rebellion took the form of pizza. The shop down the road did a passable margherita—none of your artisanal nonsense, just honest blistered cheese and a base kissed by the oven’s fury. I ate it leaning against the kitchen counter, the cardboard box gaping like a grinning mouth. Sunlight pooled around my bare feet, a puddle of gold I waded through between bites. Not refined, no. But there’s a sacrament in such small acts: the stretch of cheese surrendering to teeth, the way the crust shatters under fingertips, the quiet click of the front door as the world outside carried on, oblivious. Perfection, if one insists on naming it, wears the guise of ordinary things.

The midday air was honey-gold as my father and I stepped into the park, the kind of warmth that settles gently on your skin like a remembered touch. He walked slightly ahead, his familiar silhouette cutting through the dappled sunlight, his shoes scuffing against the gravel path in a rhythm I'd known since childhood.

From somewhere beyond the chestnut trees, the distant strains of "Die Internationale" mixed with chants of "Wir sind das Volk!" drifted through the air—reminders of the day's political heartbeat. But here in the park, the music was softer: a street musician's accordion playing "Im Mai, im Mai schrie der Kuckuck", its cheerful melody weaving between the birdsong.

The scent of blooming lilacs mixed with the earthy smell of damp soil. Nearby, a group of students laughed, their conversation peppered with today's protest slogans: "Solidarität!" and "Wer hat uns verraten? Sozialdemokraten!" My father shook his head with a wry smile, his calloused hand brushing against the rough bark of an oak.

At the pond, we sat listening to competing sounds—the Tschilpen of sparrows, the distant drumbeats of a demonstration, and from someone's radio, the opening notes of "Der Mai ist gekommen". My father pulled two apples from his pocket, handing me one with his customary "Für dich, mein Kind."

As we left, the park gates framed a snapshot of May Day contrasts—flower vendors shouting "Maiglöckchen! Frische Maiglöckchen!" while a passing parade sang "Bella Ciao" with German lyrics. My father squeezed my shoulder, his version of poetry, and in that moment I understood: this was our Maierlebnis—not just a May experience, but a living tapestry woven with protest songs and poetry, the sacred and the political, all witnessed together under the same spring sun.

The five-hour walk through town left my legs sore but my mind refreshed. Long walks have become a habit, much like my study sessions, which often stretch late into the night. By the time my dad and I reached the park, the songs in my headphones had faded, leaving only the rustle of leaves and the crisp autumn air. We stood there for a while, saying little, just breathing it all in.

Back home, I decided to play chess online as White, hoping for a quick mental workout. I opened with 1. e4, and my opponent responded with the Sicilian Defence. At first, I felt in control, building a strong center with the Alapin Variation. But then, overconfidence led to a blunder—12. Nxe5, walking straight into 12... Qa5+, forking my king and knight. Just like that, the game slipped away. I dragged it out a few more moves out of stubbornness, but the loss was inevitable. Chess has a way of humbling you when you least expect it.

Frustrated, I switched to Agar.io, hoping for some mindless fun. To my surprise, the server was nearly empty—just a few tiny cells drifting aimlessly. With no real competition, I gobbled them up one by one, splitting my blob just to pass the time. Within minutes, I dominated the leaderboard, but it felt hollow. Winning without challenge is like eating a flavorless meal; it fills you up but leaves no satisfaction.

Dinner was a quick affair—leftover pasta reheated in the microwave. As I ate, I scrolled through YouTube Shorts, cycling through clips of cats, gaming fails, and oddly satisfying ASMR. The algorithm knew I wasn’t really watching, just filling the silence.

The real challenge came later that evening when my friend messaged me, panicking about his upcoming English exam. His knowledge was patchy at best, so I sat down with him to break things into manageable pieces.

First, we tackled travel vocabulary. Words like "itinerary" and "accommodation" sounded intimidating, so I simplified them:

- "Itinerary" became "your hour-by-hour trip plan."

- "Accommodation" turned into "where you crash after a long day."

- "Visa requirements" were reframed as "permission slips for entering a country."

Next, we roleplayed a conversation at an airport check-in. His first attempt was hesitant: "I go to fly London tomorrow?" I corrected him: "Swap it—say, ‘I’m flying to London tomorrow.’" We drilled the sentence until his pronunciation almost passed for natural.

Finally, I made him translate everything into Russian, testing his recall. "The hostel has a curfew" became "В хостеле комендантский час," which he grumbled sounded like a military rule. "That’s because hostels are warzones," I joked, dodging the crisp packet he threw at me.

By the end, he could at least explain "lost luggage" without resorting to charades. Progress, however small, still counts.

After helping my friend with English as best I could, I switched to German. While practising German, I picked up a few new words – some I already knew, but most were unfamiliar. Later, I cleared out a heap of spam from my inbox before finally heading to bed.