I’m not sure if i laid my cards right,
If the flights i decided to take were good moves and if the masks I decided not to wear anymore will be the wind that’ll lead me where i want to be. But if there’s something I’m pretty sure of – and few are the things can call sure -, it is that at this precise time I’m at, I’m happy.
for god knows what weird combination of words and ideas, it feels like home.
And you can find me here,
at a corner cafe in a town I couldn’t paint by heart, faces I wouldn’t imagine any different, the salty air blown by the ocean.
There’s this one thing I’ve learnt, in that space of time came out of a kid’s dream, hanging mid-way between the passing of days and what is still to be done – like when you’re looking for something lost and find it in your pocket, and find it in the most unexpected place – you can find yourself at home. right there, where you’ve always been.
Because home isn’t a building dressed in white paint and drawers filled with cutlery and postcards.
It is tracing the curves of your skin at the end of the day, an afternoon walk to drink a coffee and letting the naivety of your eyes lead your way, thirsty for getting lost in cobblestone streets and unknown contours of hick towns, eyes to dive in at the end of a steep climb and words you finally found the courage to let slip out.