Maybe it’s pure cowardice what makes one move. “Oh, you’re so brave, you’ve lived so many adventures!”. Bollocks. How many experiences can a person go through before finding tranquility? Audacious, intrepid, heroic. And at the same time, a dictionary gives “desperate” as a synonym of “brave”.
What am I doing in the middle of these thousand boxes? How am I going to carry them with me? I’d rather have nothing, like I used to. Moving was a lot easier then. Moving… I was still a nomad, I still am. Can a snail find a place of its own? Or is it damned forever to be its own house? Do butterflies make nests? And if they do, how much time does it take it to leave it for something else? Nature calls. What nature?
Sometimes, a woman or a man has to rest in peace while still in movement. Sometimes we must accept nature is varied, multicolored, inconstant. Sometimes we must shrug and let things flow, let oneself flow.
Is it still time to move? Where the fuck am I going? What the fuck am I searching for? Tranquility? Can I find while the earthquake happens? Sometimes I feel I’m going in a spiral road, hopefully waiting that the middle will be like the eye of the hurricane, the center of the spiral, the end of the path.