PASSPORT
I have carried many versions of myself. One spoke softly because he feared being heard. Another laughed too loudly because he feared being forgotten. There was one who belonged to a village road, another to a crowded city bus, another to an airport departure gate illuminated at three in the morning.
Each believed he was the final version.
Each was mistaken.
The truth is that identity behaves less like a monument and more like a river. It collects tributaries. It accepts rain. It changes shape without surrendering its name.
I no longer ask where I belong.
Instead, I ask what I can carry forward.
A kindness learned from one place. A lesson learned from another. A memory from each.
And so I travel lightly, not because I possess little, but because I have discovered that home is not a location stamped into a passport.
It is what remains when every border has been crossed.
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