It is night. It is November. The most depressing month, yet the one when all the magic happened.
I try to reflect back on the past couple of years of my life. A lot of change has happend.
My name, one change.
The country of residence, 3 changes.
Perspective, countless changes.
Two years ago I was in Berlin. The flat had orange walls, which was nice, but the place was freaking cold. I slept under four blankets and felt lonelier than ever. Coal dust everywhere, black river, endless metro rides across the restless city. Berlin is a lonely place. People come there feeling empty, many try to fill themselves with melancholy, glamour, lust, and indifference. Artists seeking for enlightenment, others seeking to be artists, I met good friends but they never came back, everything seems to be in a constant move.
So I also left.
Following the coal dust, I suppose, I ended up in Prague. Oh, the beloved Prague! Bridges in the night (cheap wine on the railway bridge, rushing steps between Újezd and the National Theater, reaching out to see the swans under Palackého most), little tea houses, people reading books in trams, cobble stones, and the mysterious presence of history in every corner, the feeling of walking in the set of some centuries-old play.
(much later I discovered the strange dynamics of the moving nature vs. stable city. The city with its roads, buildings, signs and bridges is built to resist any movement. Nothing in it moves without someone attempting to move it. The city is supposed to resist the movements of wind, water and earth, whereas things in the nature simply follow these movements and adjust to them. One day I noticed that the only moving thing in the city was a bunch of maple leaves on the street, carried by the wind. Everything else stood stubbornly in its concrete stillness. Which one did I belong to - the movement or the resistance?)
I try to reflect back on the past couple of years of my life. A lot of change has happend.
My name, one change.
The country of residence, 3 changes.
Perspective, countless changes.
Two years ago I was in Berlin. The flat had orange walls, which was nice, but the place was freaking cold. I slept under four blankets and felt lonelier than ever. Coal dust everywhere, black river, endless metro rides across the restless city. Berlin is a lonely place. People come there feeling empty, many try to fill themselves with melancholy, glamour, lust, and indifference. Artists seeking for enlightenment, others seeking to be artists, I met good friends but they never came back, everything seems to be in a constant move.
So I also left.
Following the coal dust, I suppose, I ended up in Prague. Oh, the beloved Prague! Bridges in the night (cheap wine on the railway bridge, rushing steps between Újezd and the National Theater, reaching out to see the swans under Palackého most), little tea houses, people reading books in trams, cobble stones, and the mysterious presence of history in every corner, the feeling of walking in the set of some centuries-old play.
(much later I discovered the strange dynamics of the moving nature vs. stable city. The city with its roads, buildings, signs and bridges is built to resist any movement. Nothing in it moves without someone attempting to move it. The city is supposed to resist the movements of wind, water and earth, whereas things in the nature simply follow these movements and adjust to them. One day I noticed that the only moving thing in the city was a bunch of maple leaves on the street, carried by the wind. Everything else stood stubbornly in its concrete stillness. Which one did I belong to - the movement or the resistance?)
