Tel-Aviv

This city... it's not mine. It's not OF me. It's not IN me. It once was, but it is not mine any longer. We have parted ways. Looooong ago. It took me years to come to terms with that. After all, denial is a beautiful escape from an uncomfortable truth. The truth that I don't belong here. I once did. But that was a different ME I wore. A different Tamar graced these streets. A different Tamar knew the ​​language. The spoken and the non-spoken. A different Tamar fit in with the scenery. With the people. A different Tamar owned this city. But I don't. I don't own any city. And nor do I want to. I like being a voyager. A visitor from the outside looking in. I have lived in many places but it's as if I didn't live anywhere at all. Us people, we tie ourselves in knots, we stamp our footing on the map, we build a home. A physical one, that is. But we fail to remember the home within us that trumps even the most luxurious houses. We fail to remember how quickly we can all be gone. We fail to remember that we are nothing but our body and flesh, hopes and dreams, stories and the bonds we make. Our home is really is - each other. But so few of us remember that. And so many of us build ourselves palaces in OUR streets. So no, this city isn't mine. And neither is any city. I belong to them all, and to none. But mostly, I belong to the ones I love. Those are the ones I'll leave behind. Nothing else lasts but the bonds we make.