Nights of white satin
The walls, the stone floor, the sharp edges of shadow, everything here invites the pilgrim to wait: there is no rush.
This is an antechamber, a place for the soul to reflect, for the mind to accept.
The journey may take a day, or a year, or a thousand years, at the end, time no longer flows: it is just now, forever.
If you have come thus far, friend, leave behind any doubt you may have: in front of you, in these long corridors, is infinity.
Only propositions have sense; only in the nexus of a proposition does a name have meaning.
~ Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (1921), 3.3
We live surrounded by symbols. In this city, where you and I dream, love, walk and invent new causes to believe, infinity lives through their immortality.
The ghosts have names, some secrets, as yet unrevealed. They have left for us so many traces of their own dreams: Viktoria Hill, the Iron Cross, the Blue Angel, abandoned airfields, hideous ruins, and for each one we can discover them, silent, ever so present, braving the flow of time, as ice covering the Spree.
The lakes are now frozen, the air carries the scents of wood and coal fires, perhaps the lingering sounds of ancient wars. So, you and I, my love, we walk with the Dead, from time to time, listening to their calm voices, evoking infinity.
Picture: The season of fallen leaves. © 2017 Irina Urumova
