How do you tell the difference between coming and going? Can we all be coming to and going away from the same things at the same time? Can I not go away from me a little to maybe come towards myself a little more? Can I be going away from home when I'm actually coming home? Going away from the fragments of millions of thoughts I have about my home and the scent of it, the people in it and the stories I grew up with, the places I played in, the sea, the airplanes that flew across our sky. For coming home means going away from all of these thoughts of home; sometimes. Coming home, is living in it, devoid of its romanticisations; just plain and raw; just sometimes that it feels like I've gone away from it. Maybe we're all somewhere, going away from someone, when we're coming to them. Going away from their memories, to create new ones of new comings. Going away from the images of their scent, from the knowledge of their gestures, the rust of their smiles, just to find small new things about them to remember. Its like those waves that hit the shore and go back instantaneously. It's every coming is a going away as well.
Somewhere. Words are plain confusing.
Somewhere. Words are plain confusing.
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