I am at home within myself.
A Hawaiian twilight dims the background; I can hear the sleepy cooing of a nightjar on the branches of the acacia koa above me, blinking itself awake. Perhaps it’s a common nighthawk. Sue tells me those frequent the south shores of O’ahu.
With the sun descends the temperature. Nothing alarming, nothing intense; no reason to leave my cross-legged perch on the stone bench. A simple breeze lifts the hair from my face, leaning in for a kiss. I can’t recall ever being too hot, too sweaty–knowing that the version of myself, not half a day ago, couldn’t have remembered the reverse.
Here I am. A tiny human drop of soul. Outnumbered by the freckles on the fern that brushes my forearm. Minuscule against the Universe, and containing, simultaneously, the entirety of it. Here I am. Between my fingers rests the key to the cage; a cage I built with fists and hot tears and flying accusations. A cage I hand-wove and blamed them for. I hold on to the key, which has the tendency to transform into beautiful things such as butterflies or nightshade.
Here I am.
I am home.
I am the voiceless breeze within my home, within my self and my soul, the genesis and epicenter of Nowhere. How good to belong here–how sturdy, how sound. To belong everywhere is illusion; ripping bloody at toenails and roots of teeth to have a say in all of it.
To belong everywhere is to be scattered.
To belong Nowhere is to be fathomless.
Where are you from? They ask, and I smile; I no longer answer this as instructed. Not now that I see the handfuls of soul I give away with every artificial answer.
Where are you from? They ask–and they ask and they ask as we all die within ourselves. Turning the keys, locking ourselves in, tooth by rusted tooth.
Not me. Not now.
“I am from Nowhere,” I say, and smile–knowing exactly where that is.
Peace and blessings,