I fear I am growing less pliable. I worry that after years of resettling, I will forever be looking backward and missing the place I am not. That I will forever be in past tense. My idea of home, the home I am sick for, is a mysterious, shifting place. The real reason I am worried about this, though, is that there are still so many cities where I want to live. There are cultural tics I want to pick up as my own, and I want to reshape myself in small ways through my encounters with the cities. I want to crash and bash against Moscow, against Scandinavia, against Edinburgh. Against cities I barely know exist, and won’t really until I find myself for some reason packing my bags and heading there. There are wonderful advantages that come out of such behavior. But also repercussions.
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