All the marvels of the ancient world rekindled the souls of past lives while I walked last week through gates, porticoes, colonnades and chapels. I wondered why, in a group of ten, mine seemed to be the only soul that touched something ephemeral, something surreal and lasting as I entered into each church. Why did the souls of ancient history, ancient pride and reverence rest only with me? Why do I feel what few seem to recognize? What kind of walls have been built to keep me from the life that surrounds me, a life in which I am indeed a stranger?