IMMIGRANT

Am I going home? I'd like to believe you and your words. Wherever I will put my feet from now on, I will be an immigrant. Which is the hardest part; to make yourself at home or always find a way to return to what you know as home? Is it possible this two issues are merely the same? What will I see, and in what ways will my views be different from what I see here right now outside my window home in Överlida? Will I dare even look? I'm longing for you that it hurts. I'm aching for someone so much that I cry. Could it be me? Could I be calling for me?
These leaves are falling and the trees are blowing outside now. They blow for me, blow for me to move. I can feel they stir me. But now it's still. Have I found home? Is this the end or the beginning, and does it really matter?
For now, I can only cry. I cry me to new places, hurt for new waves and for you and me. Today I am a stranger, for tomorrow I am an immigrant. For ever.

Tomorrow I'm moving to London. Only here I will be at home.