A city of a thousand spires. Guiding beacons. Too cluttered and frequent to guide the lost wanderer.
Ancient and new piled upon each other. One invading the other's space, recursively, for centuries.
There exists no rhyme or reason or grand design. Only a peculiar beauty in the chaos.
The narrow streets and writhing masses in summer heat cause my anxiety to boil over.
It ebbs and flows. I feel it as Kafka once did. Our demons drastically different.
There is no respite from it. Not in the dark nor the light. Not at home nor on banks of the Vltava.
There is no escape,no hiding. I must accept it. Confront it. Control it.
Here, in this foreign land, my demons will not best me. Not again. Not anymore.
The city is a tangled mess. Its messy history evident in the patchwork architecture. Scars of the past patched over to form an intricate tapestry. I embrace the lessons it imparts.