It came quite suddenly, without provocation. A sudden flash of amber light through half-remembered trees. Heavy boots on ancient stones as I slipped between citadel walls and down the stair that led to my sweet Vltava. A feeling of home, as harrowing as it is comforting.
The next time, same city, different street. The corner of Španělská on a grey autumn evening. The cello shop, the angels on the station roof below. The graffiti and the balconies in rich roccoco red. Just a breath of it, too brief and yet too real to be a memory.
It stirred a sadness in me – these dreamlike snatches of a place I knew by heart, then willfully forgot. A sense that it was somehow trying to reach me – the strange shared pains of long-distant twins.
A week later, stranger still. My mind found me in Ireland, on the Rush to Dublin train, gazing out to mist-strewn Howth across the widening bay. Not a moment I chose to preserve, but one that returned of its own accord. The feelings. The chill. The condensing breath on the window panes.
These visits leave me hollow, like a body no longer possessed, grasping at the veil as it closes again over questions unanswered and closure denied. And yet… there is hope.
A hope that this is a calling. A break from my brief hibernation, and an urge to relight the torch. To add more soul-transporting moments to this spiritual scrapbook that I alone can fill. A somehow stirring of destinies.
A hope that this is wanderlust in its most visceral form, my blessing and my curse.