The first time I said, I was a stray, was more than a decade ago.
It was after I realized that everything I called home had vanished.
Don’t get me wrong, it was all there, right under my nose. Nothing really disappeared… Not completely though. Nothing big had changed. But a special something was missing.
I could not attach anymore.
Don’t know why. There was no place I could fit in. Not anymore.
It was gone. Forever, obliterated from one day to the other.
I was lost. I lost my way…
Looking back, this was the saddest thing happen to me, I guess. It was killing me.
In my grief about losing home, I started dashing forward, claiming myself a wanderer. I pretended not to be thrown out of my little paradise. I pretended to explore. I pretended to be free to roam endlessly.
That’s what air roots are about.
Not the freedom I chose. That kind of freedom is… a lie. I could be free anywhere, if I’d chose to. Naturally, with all consequences.
The air-root-freedom was just a transient freedom, not needing me to change. Not questioning my motif was leading nowhere. Merely, I was running away.
I told you. It was an excuse… Compensating, not coping.
There was the glorious life of a stray, without attachments. Very tempting, I’d give you that anytime. No one I needed, no one I cared for, no one I was responsible for/to. Swampy sweet ignorance. It always tasted a bit coppery, but as sweet as honey…
But look at it differently:
Did you ever see a true stray?
Not trusting anyone, wandering around aimlessly… Gaunt, hungry and exhausted. Filthy opportunist, if you ask me.
Did you ever see how the life of a stray ends? No? It happens every day, every week, every month, every year. You should observe. I’d tell you honestly, if it wouldn’t make my guts twitch…
It ends in trash.
Between trash…. It’s where strays go to end.
Never belonging anywhere.
Never going to be missed.