I hold my head in my hands. Darkness becomes adorned with bright spots when I close my eyes. The pain moves skillfully from the head to the eyes. There is little that I can do. I wait in trust for my body’s capacity to heal itself.

Images move past in rapidity. A week has gone past since I returned. The adventures of the nomad have ceased awhile.

I write this piece on my laptop, which I have placed on the study table in a bedroom. In one corner are placed the books, in another stationery. I often stare at the dream board, hanging on the wall. Postcards and beads carefully chosen on various travels are pinned on. Post-its with caring words on love will greet a reader.

I call this place home. Home has been undernourished and stagnant, mostly though a cauldron of stifled dreams. For the nomad, the road has a closer resemblance to life. Having returned here I move with apprehensions of what may.

Lessons from the journeys come forth. In the journey of a nomad, each stop is a point – each point connecting to the whole. This place is a point too. I call this place home, for the moment.

Before long, I will move again to the next point.


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