The idea of centre, the idea of home, suggests neither a beginning nor an end, but I'm rather attached to the notion that everyone at their core holds many of both. There are infinite finalities, and perhaps their equally infinite combinations are what makes the cut and knotted ties within each soul special. At times I find home difficult to find, even if it appears to be just down the street. It is hidden under folded layers and desperate grasps at the universe's edges, seeking to fill itself with extrinsic values and traits. Violently frantic endeavours to decorate seemingly empty rooms. Stretches of time stretch across a buried hope to return to my centre, prodding and pushing down until, finally, the bubble bursts. It takes many moons each time to realize I need not look anywhere but within. I don't need any furniture in this home of mine, only a stable floor to dance tentatively across. Outside it's terrifying. Some days I feel lost and unsafe without ever leaving the space behind agitated eyes. Others I can put on a jacket and some good shoes and travel across cities without ever leaving home. Explore the stage without leaving behind the centre. At the end of the day, I am a complete soul, and fragmented bodies and worlds cannot change the state or definition of an individual, of a human being: whole and free-standing.
