My Hidden Lives // Prose

57. about anchors



There was a time when I walked these streets every day, saying goodbye. It made me both happy and sad at once: it made the city feel more marvelous, more mine. But it isn’t mine. No city is. I’m not sure if places can belong to people, but it seems I was not meant to have that kind of security. I have no home. No roots.

Threads are my only anchor – but they are almost inevitably to people, and people are not static. People move away – they change, they dance, and while doing so, sometimes the fragile bonds break. Or stretch, until they are worn very thin by time. In the end, you almost don’t notice them splitting until it’s too late. My friends, who shared their tears in early mornings when it seemed that dawn might never come again, are houses in the only city I will ever live in, my heart.



2 thoughts on “57. about anchors

  1. Time is an oppressor; it steals much from us. In the moments where we feel anchored it seems like we’ll never lose our place, but everyone around us is not moving at the same pace, nor in the same direction, and so too does our own pace and direction change. I liken it to when you enter the sea and spend some time floating or swimming, and it seems like you are not moving very much or very far, but when you make it back to shore, you are always much farther down the beach from where you entered. That is how I feel about time.

    • You actually described what I was thinking better than I did in my own text πŸ™‚ Don’t know how I managed to overlook the comment, but yes, I agree with your thoughts 99% πŸ˜€

You think, therefore you are.

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