An urban heart brought me without strings to the city of cities. The glowing, polluted and beautiful metropolis where two sides of everything crash, headlong, into one another. I have been tailored over 31 years to enjoy being caught in the middle.
Love grows like a bud, understanding forcing its way up through the mud of contextless confusion. I feel I am approaching everything. Riding hands free on the express train toward the heart of myself. Pink, white, green tips of branches from long-standing trees reach out to me. Under their trunks are the roots of history, sentience, memory. Each sentinel is a story waiting to be told.
The patterns of words become maps on my tongue. I can read and write before I speak, and this does not feel backwards at all. The lines of graphite and ink on white are a comfort to me. I see design and repetition in the numbers of stroke order. In the edges the buildings and flashing lights make. The curves of shadows around the bend of a wall against the river. I see kanji everywhere and I understand it on an intuitive level better than these intanible roman letters.
Every morning is a half hour commute.
The tracks of the train are well planned and get me where I’m headed fast. Though I have an inate sense that I will have to find a new home to do the work I want. But like the avenues of blossom-dusted trees, I am rooted to this place. I am rooted to places and times. There is no need to set fire to these. If I should, on what strength will I weather the storms?
Each seed cast from my hand is a place I will return to again. A semi-nomad has many homes and I was born from a motion-born blood. The energy of the air stimulates my cells to change. I am a creature of imagination, full of potential not yet realized. The set-up is still in progess. I am still riding, keeping balance, waiting for my station to come.