In all those years of moving around, I’ve had a number of temporary homes from one place to another. I hear it all the time as I thought I’ve settled in: it is where my heart is, it is the people I’m with, the places I love or the food I eat. A template to provide me with a sense and a place of belonging. Yet I have felt in places I’ve been usually dictates and everyone in it should follow. Where I would expect to find some measure of belonging, comfort has been absent.

My journey took me to empty roads, silent nights and discoloured dreams. I cannot hold on to things too long. Every time I thought I have something, I move away. Now I have a collection of unfinished memories. A collection that cannot be the sum of a whole but just scattered pieces of an unfulfilled life.

I see my sighs in thin wisps of lamenting breaths. I depart and collect the memories. I look away only to find something new. "This place is really nice. The people are friendly and helpful. I should have no difficulty living here."