“This isn’t about me, sick and smoking in the stuffiness near the airport, arriving here for the first time.
or about the Tbilisi – Moscow flight at the end of December – when the
stewardess shouted at me: ‘wanna eat?’, I woke up and started crying.
or about my two half-hearted paddles in deep dark see water.
and it’s not about a huge hole, opening in my chest, when I remember an
open-door house and a woman’s cry in Ozurgeti late at night when we were
entering the yard.
or about the last time in May when I saw all those people who I’d made
friends with over 2 years.
and it was all alike and yet so new.
the same stories can be similar and yet so different.
and here I am, walking along that familiar street to my favourite house in
that city, and it’s enough to start telling a story.”