On belonging nowhere
A few thoughts on in-betweenness, transit and the strange comfort of not having a fixed place to call home.
There's a particular feeling that arrives in transit — in the hushed hum of a train, in the anonymous comfort of a hotel room, in the moment between leaving and arriving.
It's not loneliness, exactly, but a kind of spaciousness, as if the usual boundaries of life have softened just enough for other versions of ourselves to surface.
I've often felt a little out of place, not because I didn't belong anywhere, but because I seemed to belong a little bit everywhere. Places leave their traces: in habits, in tastes, in the cadence of how we see the world.
Perhaps home isn't a single place at all, but a continuity — a thread that runs through the places we've been.
There's a quiet freedom in this in-betweenness. Without the weight of rootedness, it's easier to be attentive, to be curious, to notice the way morning light falls differently in each city.
This is placeholder editorial text. Replace it with your own reflections before publishing.
