A million years ago

My truth is all I own in this world, please understand that.
It’s the only space in this world that no one can oust me from
it’s the only thing that nourishes my soul
And it’s the only thing that I’ll take with me to my grave

I’ve found that anything I add to my truth, detracts from my essence
So I travel light, in preparation for my next call to adventure
My soul inherited the somali nomadic proclivities that my homebody and introverted self vehemently rejects
My mind is always wandering, my heart wondering

I really hate travelling, I do. I hate change because every day I awake to new truths that I have to try on outside my comfort zone
So it’s a counterbalance I guess
The worst part about being a nomadic soul is that no one can accompany you.
Most people would never see what I see, nor could I explain to them in an inviting way because it’s an experiential knowledge

I’ve always been afraid of that, since I was 4. I sensed this immense inner universe that would force me to part from others and I spent half of my life blinding and numbing myself to it because it’s the scariest shit ever. What if I get lost and never come back? Or worse yet, what if I come back and I’m no longer welcome?

But like a nomad, my soul’s survival depended on me moving and everytime I would move to new truths, I had to die to everything I had until that moment
I always have to move from a zero point field
A place where all the lessons are absorbed, obstacles dissolved, incongruencies resolved

When I write, it’s never to make others,you, understand because I can hardly understand it myself. But my writings are landmarks and souvenirs I leave behind to remember the vast truths I’ve traversed and to honour everything I’ve sacrificed, suffered, sought.

Writing is a séance I perform to channel the ghosts of everything I’ve been
Writing is a balm for me, a soul no one understands, a sensitive soul that needs to know that there’s something bigger in me than my fears and doubts
No one else can do that for me
Writing is my Nightingale
My dream catcher
Nightmare comforter

The map of my soul is only intelligible to the naked eye seeking to be whole.

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