What is a home? Where you can lay your thoughts to rest. One by one. Like folded clothes. Where you can smoothen out the edges of the day’s dog eared pages. And pretend like you are whole again. Where compassion is a fire you don’t have to start all by yourself.
Somebody calls it the place where all attempts to escape cease.
But it’s a decoy. Like a smell that you didn’t notice at first, because you are right at the centre of it. And when it starts to curdle around you, you cannot believe you didn’t smell it before. It’s been there all the time.
The forest hides in the shadows. The ocean spills out of a broken urn. Music slips out of the broken string. And the light of many betrayals illuminates the dust, through the crack of a broken soul. The machine is alive when it’s broken. The system, when there’s a glitch.
Kintsugi is the art of mending broken pottery with gold. But I don’t need gold. All I need is the mismatched, incomplete, artlessness of a journey without end; to know that, really, it’s an illusion.
As Hakim said, chaos never died.
The river has no centre
No real beginning, or end
Its stillness
Is in its movement
I could live with that
A kind of home
chronicles from the mad city 