Fallen leaves have no roots

Shaped by countries that never became home, I return through self-portraiture to where I once belonged: their rooms, their clothes, their memory. But also to the country I was born in, where even the soil does not recognise me.

I was shaped by countries that never became a single home. They held me briefly, just long enough to shape me, before I moved again. Each place began as foreign, then slowly became familiar, before eventually becoming distant again. Each left a piece, but none could fully name me. I am homesick, but for a place I cannot name. 

What does it mean to never feel fully rooted in one place? To fall between the gaps and have nowhere to cling onto. 

Through self-portraiture, I return to my past, searching for where I might have belonged. I look for myself in their spaces, in their clothes, in the memory of having once called them home. But also, in the country I was born in, the one I only returned to as an adult, where even the soil does not recognise me.