I have been in transit. My feet are silverfish nibbling away at old paper, in a prism fashioned out of solitude and vacant dreams. My body makes its way through cities of desire and longing. The map tears away to reveal faces, and smiles, and once again, that throng of shape that is the music of our togetherness. It is spread out before me, and my living threads through it with the persistence of a Konkan train making up time in the night. When the body moves from one space to another, it borrows little pieces of memory and laughter in its magnetic skein, unrolling time as it proceeds centipede like with the burden of its legacy.
Journeys make me think of how we are nothing but little pieces of patchwork field city lake hearth gravel hill stitched into each other. When you leave a place, and move to the next, you leave something behind, promising return, but when you return, what you left behind is the not the same. And what you ventured out to find is not what you had imagined. But to share this mystery, the warmth of a palm is enough.
Sometimes only skin is home.
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