Travel- a rejection of stasis; a crossing of cultures, a confusion in localism, a modus operandi of forgetting home.
Routes begin with the assumption of movement.
Home. The shaper, the net, the birth and the blood.
Routes always precede roots.
I am still in the temple. I point my toes to the back of the shrine and I breathe.
And it chimes. And it chimes
The elephants traverse. But they stop and they drink.
And I stop. And I drink.
I share homes and each become my own overnight. Sometimes, I stay a little longer. But I do not overstay.
I am in a taxi and I hear humming. The markets are loud. I do not know their dances and I do not speak their tongue. But I know that an orange is an orange and a mango is a mango.
I explore the pages of my weathered book. Many more pages will turn before the earth turns again and I arise.
At 2am, I stumble home down the beach. I have lost my shoes but i have found my feet.