Part of me crumbles a little at the thought of, yet again, wrenching my roots out from the comforts and delights of home; home is where the family is, home is where the love is, home is where you are. That same part crumbles at the thought of forcing my roots back into the rocky insecurities of my life abroad, where one wilts easily and become sallow with frustration and loneliness and doubt and hurt.
Yet each time I leave home, a part of me unfurls to meet the rays in the eyes, knowing that that's where I may do a hoppity skippity bounce step whenever I so choose, where I may coat my sallow leaves with emerald paint, where the field is bigger and brighter and high, high above the sand and the birds and the rain and the clouds.
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Evelyn
I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross / to reach you. For I am in love with you / and this is what it is like or what it is like in words.
Carol Ann Duffy
When I grow up, I'd like to be a cream puff. A cream puff with apricots, or even a plain one. Lukewarm at the bakery. In the window.
Jeux d'enfants
No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
Samuel Beckett