Roots

(to Carlo, Mancho, Kim and Miky – my roots and my perimeter)

Sure, stuff changes, and it changes a lot.. But there are things that apparently don’t. Call those roots.. Call them the keystones in the architecture you’ve been building since the day you were born. Call them “no fun dull stuff” as well, if you like. But they are there whether you like it or not. It’s sometimes annoying to think that in reality there’s not much that is truly original or unique in yourself. You are, like it or not, very much like your mother and father, and grandmothers and grandfathers. A lot like your brothers and sisters, and sometimes like your cousins and aunts and uncles too. There is a tiny bit of that friend of yours back in primary school, and of that twat bullying you around and calling you names in junior high. There’s a bit of all those people you called family as a kid when visiting on the other side of the planet.
Especially, there’s a lot of those friends who dreamed you up to make you the person you happen to be. They’re like the perimeter of everything you are, the bulwarks preventing you from going astray and loosing yourself. They all do their bit in keeping you there and making sure that you remain who they want you to be, the person they created: a bit of a tug on one side when you take off the wrong way, a bit of a push in the right direction once you get stuck and don’t know where to go. In the end, they all are there to show you the way back to the essence of yourself, to the important places of being “you” and the centre of things. Curiously, each time they nudge or hold you back, you are also pushing or pulling them a bit, in turn, in the opposite direction. So it happens that the centre towards which they bring you back each time ever so slightly shifts position in the meanwhile. You end up dragging those roots along, little by little, so that step by step you and those bulwarks end up moving in a slow and imperceptible journey across all of your lives, together.

Roots

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