A place is not a place, it is a context. It is a guide. I have switched too many trains without the knowledge of destination. There’s a grid inside, pressed tracks on the way to be retraced to a different route. I change the context around my essence and see how that changes my meaning. Like the word “set”, I have acquired many definitions, entries multiplying in the dictionary. It is exhausting to be guided in different directions, but I don’t even know who I am without them. I wonder if there is a home for me, the one I will agree with in addition to loving it, the home I will choose to settle in, like tea leaves to the bottom of the cup, so that the place doesn’t choke as it drinks. I wonder if I’ll ever stop confusing the maps I have been using, and choose one destination, which will eventually become a place to return to and to be guided by.
By Madina Tuhbatullina
30 N 