Life tells us to bloom where we are planted; essentially, to accept our fate and make the best of it, but the roots that we have are not like those that tether trees to soil. Ours snake around the heart-line that we carry inside, intersecting with each curving memory, a bulky and tattered piece of luggage that we never put down. This leaves our body free to roam. If the sun stops shining its nutrients onto wherever we’ve pinned as home, we are able to move to the patch that is drenched in light. The choice is always ours. You are as fluid as the next whim after which you give chase.