Here I am, back from Prague.

These past few weeks, I have been waiting. I waited, I waited, I waited so hard for Prague to come. For, finally (maybe?), a chance to burst the bubble I have been festering in and look at my reflection in the glimmering, ethereal surface of the River Vltava of Prague, and maybe, finally, learn something about myself.

But ‘finally’ never came.

Words like ‘finally’ make you anticipate the end, the achievement of your goal. But it’s a deception, a lie. There is never an end to this. There is only an interminable journey, from uncertainty to uncertainty; shaky every step of the way, like a Ryanair flight.

Here I am, back from Prague- in my empty, lonely Tocil room, with walls as bare and unyielding as the truth, dotted by tiny remnants of blue tack and adhesive. Drawers empty, like my heart. Floor messy and strewn with junk, like my head.

I have packed away my belongings into sturdy cardboard boxes. I am tired, my eyes are about to shut, and my nose is runny from the dust. I seem like I’m ready to move on.

Move on? From what?

And where to?

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