Thomas Swanson

I've always known who I am.
That has never been a problem.

Growing up
  in everywhere and nowhere,
I learned to build myself as my center,
carve an identity to serve as home.

It's not something I can plot to a map,
a conveniently defined X-to-mark-the-spot,

It's the smell of impending snow,
 beneath sunsetting-palms, with your toes in the still warm sand;
It's the grey-blue Monsoon wind,
 shepherding a rain cloud in one window and out the next,
   and stoking the fire of New England Autumn leaves;
It's mountains,
 so high,
   the air runs out,
   and you can finally catch a full breath in their gravity;
And running barefoot through the jungle,
collecting a thousand miles of views to a good pair of boots;

It's going somewhere you don't speak the language, to be better understood;

Home is all the storied things
 that make the puzzle of my past,

So when I find myself
  In a place
     In a time,

Surrounded by pieces that never seem to fit,

It's fine.

Because I have me
And I've always know who I am

It's just

Sometimes these days

I feel like I'm forgetting how to be him

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