The words are breadcrumbs and waterlilies. It should have been a way back home, one that no bird would have been able to devour. But homes are just like fairytales, they belong in the past. Rivers flow, and the waterlilies should lead to an unknown place, where the past doesn’t repeat itself.
There is a child that has left her home behind. She has found a lake, where the water will erase her tracks. The child wants to find a path. She wants to find her own path, one that won’t lead her back to that place she doesn’t want to call home anymore. A lonely waterlily floats by her. The child picks it up. She picks up all the waterlilies she finds on the lake’s shore. And one by one she returns them to the current. To let it be her guide. A path of waterlilies. To the other shore. To a place she only knows in her heart, as the thing it will never be. Her home.
I don’t know why I bother. The place where I will end up will be just as bad or even worse.
I only know this path, I only know how to float. There are no guarantees that I will be able to take root once I reach my destination. For all I know, I will just float past it.
I only want to reach my destination. I am all anticipation. That is why I don’t have roots.
