We are all homeless in one way or another, but always forget how we can rely on the anchor of the other. Trying to save things that we keep and for no reason we drown ourselves in a sea full of meaningfull insignificance.

For now I am drifting through the dryness, the rough and the dirt. I look at the horizon and it's the same even in the mountainside. No sign of mutation, just unordered movement by the permanent view.

Feeling homesick, far away from the salty smell and the sweet chaotic sound of the waves crashing, opening the way, shaping the landscape with their ephemeral power. Far away from the memories that made me who I am just like a mark on the flesh.

The static, the harsh. Some call it truth, some call fear. But it's undeniable that the heavy metallic anchor that pulls us down to the bottom, always intends to separate us from what we are. Just like a chain that keeps us close and our battery drained. We find ourselves lost into an aseptic space, nowhere to be found. So we don't follow any path by fear, and there we stay seeking to find comfort until we are drowned by the torrents in May.

As we forget our grace, we increase our own tragedy.

I either fight or I flee.

But just like the waves, we are not always the same we used to be. And as ephemeral as the water that passes by the rivers we float, crash on the surface, accept the embrace.

Tested by the force of the tempest we let ourselves be carried, we accept to be part of something mutable and we understand that movement is the keyword for improvement. So we keep everything inside this fragile paperthin and somehow, somehow we are protected.

And just as a single piece of paper that may float for a moment and dissipates its essence to the world, sometimes we understand that there is no point where we can return to, because we are already something else. Part of something that doesn't fit in the past.

The question is about the paths that lead us where, the streets, the sidewalks, the corners and the ends, because there is no end just the new paths that we follow. Just like the rivers that lead the water to the sea, and the sea takes the shipwrecks else where by its tides, the mutable persists like a plastic bag.

Flexible, fragile, light and mutable, but long lasting by its nature.

Every path takes me home. Every street leads me to a new path. Every corner takes me to a new choice.