born as a “nomadin“
full of restlessness for the illusion of freedom
each beginning a farewell
each moving a mise-en-scéne
a momentary linger

some persons as a calm anchor
a coming back to them only
sometimes to the wrong ones
some agitations as another anchor
a tiny breeze of feeling at home
never homeland though
in between some texts
of others which matter
over years

the life as a nomadin
not always visible for strangers
not always considered as running away by friends
in between mostly brittleness
whiling only the critical sight
and a second glimpse
behind the obvious
between the lines
in the pause of two words or images
this is where the nomadin lives
for now.