Posts
That Prague exists in tangible form somehow escaped my
imaginings. Prague has always been the dark heart of fantasy, shrouded in mist
and rhyme, colourless. So I wept, overpowered by reality, when I reached out my
hand to touch the base of St. Peter on Charles Bridge, wept as I did at the
Kremlin wall, to find myself standing on the very stones of history. Prague
does exist outside of novels and photographs, rime a-plenty, invaded as it were
by the colors of tourism. Modern humanity juxtaposed against spiritualism seems
more unnatural than any gruesome tale of Kafka. I am touring the husk of a
long-dead beetle. I am out of time, walking among ghosts without the reverence
of fear.