Nowhere, Somewhere, Everywhere
The air is thin in Thimphu. Thin like the veil between past and present, like the space between knowing and not knowing.
Last night, I got lost in old photos, each one a postcard from another life—Kyiv’s cold blue mornings, Saigon’s ‘Bread and Butter Pub’ nights, Bogotá’s thundercloud afternoons, Paris in art, Miami burning bright. I let them wash over me, these ghosts of past selves, all those cities where I was briefly someone, then no one, then gone.
I sip my coffee at a nameless café, watching the morning unfold. A monk strides past, beads clicking, wrapped in his ochre cocoon, carrying the kind of certainty I can’t seem to hold onto. The traffic cop stands straight-backed, radio in hand, a fixed point in a world that shifts beneath my feet.
I don’t know where I’m going next. I never have. But the road—she always finds me.
March 2025