Uprooted

Some days, you just burst into tears. The convulsions of your body are noiseless and should look a bit forced from the side. But you know they are not. You just need to get the salty water out.

Because no matter what you do, this is not your place. It does not warm your heart. It sends you into fits of laughter or shivers of joy, it gives you fountains of sorrow or plain heartbreak and yet, you have not learnt to love it.

You look out of the window and see the cross of an unfamiliar Jesus. He is preaching to you, sending you strangers in the street or whole families to take you in and yet you do not trust him. You know Jesus from your place, wooden, silent, never boastful, hanging from the cross with his head bent. You have learnt to trust that Jesus and he listens patiently, knowing you will never fully believe in him. He does not need your belief because he is part of you – Jesus from dim lit, chilly, strict but majestic churches of home.

This faith you do not understand. This way of life appalls you. Small talk, big supermarkets and even bigger alienation. They listen to your accent, they investigate your name. But they never know where you are from and what you brought with you.

And you can’t share. You try, you tell a story but at the end of the day you are alone. Alone in a flat you do not like to call home, with a person who lives there but does not live with you. You talk to friends and you are grateful they understand. But you constantly seek something. Something you lack, something you crave, something that will fill your head and heart and soul. Something, Anything.

So you drink and grow horny and complain. You complain and talk and use eloquent words to describe how you feel. You complain to your friends and they listen patiently. They sate your thirst for a while. You think you have the answer. You distract yourself. But then life hits and you are alone again.

You think. Think of happy times and fulness and joy and trust and warmth. You want to share yourself. You want to put yourself on the plate and serve it but you can’t. And you shouldn’t. Instead, you cry silent tears.

You hear water running and you avoid leaving your room. Someone you don’t know is taking a shower. Or washing dishes before taking a shower. Isn’t it strange? You don’t know the person you live with. You don’t know the person you work with. You don’t know the person you sleep with.

And yet you interact and you live and they live with you. Some of them even mean something to you.

Sometimes you think of time. More often, you think of context. You want to make sense of this, you want to belong and be calm. But mostly you feel the ground shaking beneath your feet. It shakes and shakes until it opens its mouth to swallow you.

And then you float.

It’s good you know how to swim. You lie on your back and let the cool water carry you. Your anchor is gone, your trust is cracked and you are afraid. But you are also free. Free to feel. You don’t owe them anything, This time is yours and yours alone.

So you float. And tears you cry taste like salt.