I used to think home was only what I could see and touch. now it has become a place that can only exist inside my head. What I seek is found in the core of things, which can't be seen if I only think of home as a building. A quiet refusal to treat rootedness as the only form of belonging.
To question the idea that home must always be something fixed, enclosed, and named. What if home is not a point on a map, but an instinct that guides you? What if it’s the act of moving, even without knowing where to? No Place doesn’t mean nowhere; It’s the space between definitions. It’s the pause before decisions are made, the moment before things become settled, and the in-between that most maps leave blank. ..... to my mother Antonella (1957-2011)
