Maybe it’s just poetry; but those unexposed tears coagulated in my eyes and would not come out, thought I often wished them to. Well, I turned to drawing, as most do, and ever writing, as a means to wash away that feeling which cannot be understood as simply as we wish.
Around us, you, or me, people seem happy. Oddly happy to go back home, and it’s true, home is where the heart is, right.
As for me, looking outside the window, washing the wings of the plane permeate through the clouds (or through a clear and smooth sky), each minute further away from a place I had learnt to call home, the saddest experience.
An experience in which the future becomes but a memory, and nostalgia comes prematurely, before I even arrive at the right time to start feeling it.
How do I explain my mood, or sadness, or sudden quietness to people?
It’s like, I begin, I spread pieces of myself around the street corners and in all the people I’ve interacted with. And then I had to leave, and I didn’t even have time to go back to all those places and people and re-assemble myself, so that I could come back home complete, whole, as I left.
And this is true.
A weird and uncomfortable inertia drives me back to the moment that has come to an end. I feel that I need to go to the airport and wait for the rest of me to arrive.
Maybe this is why my feet can’t keep still in a still place; they need movement, constantly in search of all the pieces of myself I left around the world.
And my mission always remains the same: to find them, and to accidentally spread them even more.
A terrible paradox,