Collage

Sitting in the Movenpick, in Singapore with a medium plate of beets, brussel sprouts, potatoes and mushrooms, a piece of bread, and an oxtail soup. It's downright confusing how it's almost like home when all the memories resurface just by being in the right environment. The heavy wood chairs and tables, the image of cows being led to green pastures with their crown of flowers, surrounded by snow tipped mountains, the St. Bernard on the curtains and prints of early 20th century skiiers in their suits, framed. Switzerland and Singapore were both homes to me once, and they both feel like home. Felt? But were these really ever fully home? Was I ever anywhere long enough to develop the idea of a "home"? I've also seen friends I've once known, stay in one place and continue to develop their friendships and common bonds, grow in their careers and grow their families. I have none of these things. I sit in a cafe that is a mockery of my life, people with friends and family eating together. Bonding. It's just me and a cup of coffee staring at these artifacts of one culture juxtaposed in another culture that are never fully mine, contemplating yet again the shifting definitions. The glue, it likes to unstick.