I am searching. It is a slow, rhythmic searching, like the pulse of a wrist that does not know its own body. I am trying to find a right home for my being, because I am different, no, more than that, I am unusual, a creature made of edges that do not fit the geometry of the world.

What kind of home will do for a soul that feels like an unuttered word?

Perhaps it is merely a humble, simple, tidy room. A square of silence where the light hits the floor at four in the afternoon, and for a moment, I am just a physical thing, contained by four white walls. To be small is a relief; to be tidy is a prayer against the chaos of being alive.

Or perhaps it is a hidden, peaceful, small house. A place where the dust settles with intention. I would live there like a secret kept from the sun. I would exist in the shadows of the furniture, listening to the wood breathe, finding my center in the stillness of a closed door.

But then, the air shifts. Perhaps my home is not a box at all. Perhaps it is everywhere in the nature. To be the salt in the sea, the vibration in the leaf, the terrifying indifference of the forest. To be everywhere is to be nowhere, and that—that is a freedom that tastes like iron and honey.

Yet, there is the ache. The most dangerous hope of all. Maybe the home is not a place, but a pulse. Maybe it is somewhere in someone’s heart. To live inside another’s gaze, to be anchored by the gravity of being known. It is a frightening thought: to be a guest in a heart, waiting to see if the door remains unlocked.

I am not sure. I am only breathing. And in the breath, I am already home, even if I have nowhere to stay.

©️ Beatriz Esmer