| 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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