Time has zoomed by like some clichéd scenes of a low-budget yet pretentious artsy film. Sitting solitary on an airport bench with a few red suitcases serving as protective shield, I drowned into oblivion in half-awake bliss. August 2. Plane in flames, mind on fire. No casualties. Just eight hours of waiting.

In my sleep marathon since my arrival, I sought to resume in one fateful sentence the gist of my journey. Now, a bit awake, I laugh at the silliness of it all.

In reality, perhaps things could be summed up, categorized, shelved and put away. But as always, when you feel about something, when things shake you, classifying thoughts and responses becomes as impossible as understanding jibberish induced by a few shots of vodka (a whopping one and a half in my case).

As ever, I am torn into polar perspectives and contradicting emotions. More than ever, the suffocating nomad solitude strangles my peace of mind. But I find that this time around, I feel a little bit more empowered by my rootlessness. Still lost. But grateful. Grateful to know that I am pivoting at the center of several cultures, a fucked up product of modern migration, and that, chance on my side, I will certainly circle the globe before I end up in a box. If no man-made nation is ever to be called mine; I am confidently able to call the entire world my home.