No Fixed Abode

Home was never accessed through a single doorway, 

but a scattered archive of perpetual states.

muscle-memoric’ constellations to uprooted neural networks.

Esoteric breathes in self proclaimed rhythms.

The pace of the nervous system, as important as the steps that follow.

Walking fine lines between fragile dignities & vibrational narratives.

 

I learned early that a home can be loud with people and still starve you of belonging.

Silence bruises just as much as ruptured voices.

Love becomes conditional, turning tension into bureaucracy.

A commodity disguised as human attachment,

it never quite fits all under one roof,

though there’s always been enough room for us all.

Possibility misaligned with plausibility; to be human is to live in contradiction.

I’ve felt more at home, outdoors than in.

 

Children becomes interpreters for ghosts, 

as shadows linger in the corners of echo chambers,

refusing to speak names or truths.

The homes we longed for, only open doors when we let go

It all works out in the end, because nothing works out in the end.

An entry which costs you a lifetime or mere minutes - 

A Dionysian decision.

 

An immigrant of my own flesh and blood,

I continue to carry my shelter in motion.

The talk of housing, only bested by the talk of weather.

The idiosyncrasies in finding joy's internal warmth as toes curl outside on cold concrete.

Access to dopamine derelict spaces comes at a high price nowadays.

We continue to wade as breath carves through space where walls once stood.

The body learns to adapt & build its own architecture - self awareness becomes blueprint,

forged in the in-betweens of differing terrains meeting, long before rent was agreed.

We’re different, yet one in the same.

The revolution will be internalised.

Regulated nervous systems become our truest homes.

 

Home is bittersweet.

Searching for our own - bound by how much is owed, at the end of the month.

Gregorian forms never built to see us surface. 

A reckoning with rock bottom.

I listen, allow, accept, adapt.

Now it is a choice, my choice.

The shadow is unbothered by the history of occupancy that clings to my skin,

I have never owned land, or vessel, or body.

Maybe this is home,

the final resting place, humble residency; a soul possession.

As the very vessel I sail, even in itself, is not my own,

for I am in God's body.

The truth is never so much so in how it appears, but how we’ve learned to see it.

 

Born beast of no nation & barons of no fixed abode.

A refusal coded in blood to anything that pretends to be power, is inherent.

Home is nostalgia no more. It is the ether - 

an operating system debugged daily.

Stripped of inherited scarcity.

Patched fractures left in ribs by patriarchy.

I process from my centre now.

A motherboard, my North Star.

 

Some days, home is the midnight itself

Empty & silent yet saying so much.

I hear my thoughts without the need for translation.

Some days, it’s the very vibrations in the air,

I stop performing resilience and let my wounds speak in their real dialect.

I’ve lived more in questions, more than country

What would a life look like if it didn’t orbit extraction?

If rest counted as wealth?

If sovereignty wasn’t a slogan, but a daily muscle; worked, warmed, trusted?

 

Now I build homes that don’t need me to stand guard.

Homes that teach themselves.

Systems that survive my absence.

This is the quiet ambition: to make myself obsolete.

By building structures where others can breathe.

 

Home is the future I’m prototyping.

Not a destination or pinpoint, but a frequency.

Ironically homeless.

A field that requires no apology for wanting more than survival & bare minimums.

And still, beneath all theory, home remains a simpler thing:

the first moment in the morning

when my breath doesn’t brace for impact.

The second my feet hit the floor

and I recognise the ground as mine.

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