Time flickering

There are moments when time does not pass, but flickers. Like old film reels in bright light, like water in the heat, like a thought that does not pass. It is not a leap in chronology, not pure memory. It is a state. An inner tipping point.
Time flickering occurs where the past and present touch each other, not loudly, but like two shadows falling into each other. Where the present begins to waver because the past seeps through the cracks. Prague knows this state. This city breathes through walls that remember things that were never spoken.
Understanding itself is a labyrinth, and reality has never been considered fixed. Understanding has always been a text in flux. A castle without an entrance. A trial without a verdict. The flickering of time cannot be explained. It just happens.
A man walks down a street and suddenly finds himself in a hall, then in front of a door that won't open, or under a tree he doesn't know, but which knows him. Time has not changed, only its weight.
The flickering of time does not ask for logic. It asks, what still lives in you, even though it is over? Who were you before you could remember? I have given this flickering a name. Not to grasp it, but to honor it. Because without this flickering, this book would not exist. Without what passed through me before I understood it, before I accepted it.