| I sit here on the floor that was once my home away from Home. I know I must join my comrade in unpacking the boxes stored temporarily at a dance studio... but I cannot seem to part from this ground. A room once filled with a bed, sofa chair, dresser and drapes around green plants and art pieces now becomes an empty four-walled container. Containing still all the secret longings of my heart. I lament and rejoice here, listening to the song above and speaking to my Maker in a language without words. Without desire, and the dried up tears of watching my life in this temporary sphere be put into boxes and suitcases again. Eternal in my migration, I am the gypsy native, indigenous to here and there. Birthed on the Silk Road itself, where merchants passed by on an evening snowing like tonight and asked my mother why give birth in a moving carriage? Why in heavens on a road as long as this? They did not know she too was a child of here and there, belonging only to Nowhere, who would come for us on the last blood moon of our most tragic year. Only when you have tasted true placelessness, will I then take you Home. He is the Gatekeeper of my Heart, and I see only in the eyes of women the knowing of what I mean. He knows the pressing need infinite to provide a permanence that has been ghost like in all of my short life. And so I sit here and watch the snow flakes fall gently onto the concrete gravity of what was once my little neighborhood. Enjoying the emptiness of it all. That I grow and shed. That I cannot hold onto anything here, and am reminded of it each time I lift and migrate. This temporary room that I lit incense in one last time; watching the blue sun dip behind the horizon of this cold winter's year. Farewell, gypsy girl. Fare well. |
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I am sitting here at my placement, dressed in black. Sleek. Wearing boots that denote a sense of purpose, but in truth, I may not possess even a shred of purpose at all.
It seems like the majority of people are just waiting for permission to die. And also to live. Hanging onto the corridors of an empty home, anticipating an apparition to come and fill it up instead. Perhaps not all of us, but can I say for most? Have we spent a lifetime attaching ourselves to another so that we feel a sense of belonging? If not to a place, then surely a person. To make homes out of lovers, and spurn on them when evicted in the end. I've noticed a pattern with me... I lose my home, my temporary scape, whenever things fall apart in love. Every time things have ended, I pick up and move. From one city to another, from one home to the next.... the feeling of placelessness always present in my life. Only those with similar experiences can understand the immeasurable suffering that coincides with this pattern. Acting from an unconscious place, impulsive decisions made on a whim that reflect only feelings of desperation in the end. I watch people walk around here, and see beneath their busy demeanor the only similarity... a deep longing to belong. Maybe we got it all wrong. Here we keep telling ourselves we only want to be loved. But what does that even mean? How can we talk about intangible thoughts in which were only passed down from one generation to the next? Of which we have no real experience of. Constantly doubting love. Belief in it one moment, disbelief the next. Whether it is ours or theirs. Filling a criteria in our head of how it should be, and taking it back once we realize it did not meet our needs. Love and Death. Here are two things we know absolutely nothing about, and perhaps when on that day it comes to claim, we will discover these two were One all along. I do not know for sure, but I truly wonder if it is only in Death, that will we know what Love was at all. In the meantime, all we are wanting is not to be loved, but to belong. We were delivered from the womb and are clamoring only to return back to that place. In a world that feels forever placeless and riddled with uncertainty... our degrees of placelessness vary from person to person. Some feel like they belong more than others. Here, I can only speak from my own experience which is an extreme. If put on a scale, I would say I have fallen way off into the deep end. As my spirit awakens to these illusions I have cocooned myself in for temporary assurances of "belonging" my sense of security does not deepen, it further uproots. Because, what I did all these years was build roots in illusions of what Home meant for me. I could not make a Home of my family, so I turned to friends, then lovers, then places. The more the feeling of homelessness grew inside me, the more I uprooted and found myself running away not from circumstances, but an ever expanding void that threatened to manifest a truly homeless experience in my physical life. How can someone possess an educated family, a community, supportive friends, intelligence, health and charm - only to isolate herself in emotional poverty? With all my talent and capability, there is a damn near complete disconnection with my relationship to society. I have rejected this world, despite my fanatic writings of wanting only to integrate. I have rejected the ladder, the game - clawing myself out of a system in vain, in which incorporates our digital selves. Manifest. And this physical beauty of the world I love so well... is also an illusion. I want the pleasure, without the pain and sit idly awaiting the Messiah to come to me. Does it not grieve me to admit that I am a coward? It does. But at least I can be honest and confess my darkest secrets, that I am absolutely disgusted with this society. I hate the way it revolves. We prioritize bullshit before beauty, and constantly, I ask myself: Why? It is the question that is drilling a hole into my mind and driving me mad. I am expected to do things in which I find no purpose in doing. To act in such a way, I find evocatively to be complete insanity. I am not a lab rat in a maze. I see this maze, and I want out. I wish for escape, but there is none, is there? I have escaped cities and homes, I have escaped people who no longer serve a place for my soul to belong in. Time and again, this life has taught me there is no home in another. To make a home within myself. But when one feels so divided, one escapes that bitter truth. I suppose the greatest blow was the realization that I have never really loved another. That I know nothing of this phenomenon... that everything I have ever done, was done in pursuit to satisfy a hunger. The hunger for a home. And the feeling of placelessness that has become me and is the greatest source of my suffering. Why is it that I can easily make relationships but not sustain them? I have nothing to give, and yet complain incessantly why I feel starved in my relationships. A mirror of the void that exists within.
I thought initially when I landed in Rio, that I was going to spend every morning swimming in the ocean and exploring this lush and vibrant city. We did some exploring, it's true. And the group of people I came here with have been more than sweet.
I seem to have lost my identity somewhere between the folds of Toronto's concrete gravity and underneath the currents of this great Atlantic. Since I was a child, I believed that freedom was across the sea, awaiting me in a foreign country where the view in my room was as fantastic as this. But no. My heart remains in chains for an entirely different reason, and the more I learn to listen to her whispers, I realize no where I go can hush the quiet hums of a wild and beating heart. She yearns for absolute sincerity. She longs for truth, not the tangible. Transparency, vulnerability. I do not search for what is real anymore in a playground of illusion. Yet the paradox exists, and I am only a newborn in understanding the language of the Heart. When we have spent a lifetime relating to one another with emptiness and cunning intellect... I look at myself in the mirror and see a fraud. And there is no Rio, or England or Hawaii Jamaica or Ilha Grande that can save me from this reflection. I see her looking back and begging behind a fickle grin to shatter the glass in between us. I don't know where I will end up in all of this. Tomorrow I board a plane back to Toronto. My depression is masked here by warmth and Acai. My humor has returned to play across my sunkissed skin. A part of me wants to forever escape the coldness of Canada's winter. Another part of me wants to be buried in it. The ice, the hermit. The season of reflection and meditation. I want to brave the storms of my grief and its strong currents that pull me and those close to me out to sea. I find beauty in my sadness. But beneath that, lay a greater truth in that it does not define me. |
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