The Nomad

The nomad sometimes live under the whirring white noise of the fan blades of the library down in Thornhaugh Street.She sometimes let the smell of cinnamon buns impregnate every inch of her in the Hummingbird Bakery.

The nomad isn’t a nomad because she has no home.She has nowhere to go because she has three homes.One was comforting,but it wasn’t quite what she would call ‘home’.One was a helter skelter,like the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre. One was too far away,so far that it would take more than one meter for a cab ride.So far that there’s no tube line to it.But it was the only home out of the other three she calls home.

The nomad is running away from home,the same she had done when she was twelve.But this time,no one is there to ask her to come back,because she’s now 20.The nomad worried me when she was 12,and she still does even when she’s 20.Dear nomad,please go home.

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