Nowhere but Home
October 2016 — Written at the Train station
She’s sitting at the train station, heading somewhere she’d never been. The hustle and bustle of the place oddly brings a soothing and familiar feeling- as if the endless motion brought her into an hypnotic state, halfway through reality and a reverie.
Standing there, still-unburdened by expectations or fear-simply watching the stream of passengers flow past. The train tracks ahead were her only compass. Paris, London, Rome, Prague-it didn’t matter. She would follow.
Whatever fate held in its cradle for her, she was ready to take it in her hands and shape it as her own. Just minutes before boarding, she stepped up to the ticket counter. When her turn came, she closed her eyes, reached for the glowing screen listing the day’s departures, and let her fingers choose.
She didn’t need to know where it would take her. She only needed to go, led by the only desire of finding herself, again and again. Shedding layers to reveal her core.
I wrote this nearly a decade ago. Back then, movement came before thought. Before I could think, I was already in motion-led by a wandering soul that always seemed to move a few steps ahead of me.
Now, I find myself in a different place. One where nowhere but home feels like the destination. Not necessarily a fixed location, but something quieter, more inward. I’m learning to sit still with that same wandering soul—to listen to it, rather than chase it.
And yet, I still carry her with me—the one who picked the train without knowing the stop. She reminds me that sometimes, not knowing is what gets you closer to your own truth
— A.C.