They say home is a feeling,

then why do I yearn for walls —

on which I can hang frames of my happiness and sadness?

And now that I have curtains on my windows,

and a desk, and a door to lock.

Why do I want to crawl on the cool floor —

for warmth and love?

Is home even a thing?

Sometimes — most times — I believe it is an illusion.

But then why am I the one envisioning it?



What makes a ship sink is not the wreck it is,

but the anchor that latches itself onto it

Water is gushing out the ship, suffocating the sea

The ocean is vast and infinity is its friend

The bridge seems to be endless,

with a cavity that no brick can fill

Where does the non-swimmer swim?