Pyongyang

It is the spectre of the sacred mountain and the lustre of the red stars above a field eternally green that hovers the dark matter of my consciousness. It is there at the sleight of my hands. It induces an old dreaminess in the atmosphere. On the morning I was to pick my bag and go, really go, I feel entangled in the cobwebs of uncertainty, yet not a cruel one. It is in that moment of hesitation, that instance of aggrandising uncertainty, before an important step is taken. I step to and fro in the room, concentrating on the idea of stepping outdoors and setting in motion an adventure towards the discovery of truth. The truth of the human nature. The truth of its good and bad, its serendipity and misfortune, and the texture of its myth.