Break a vase, and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger than that love which took its symmetry for
granted when it was a whole. The glue that fits the pieces is the ceiling of its original shape. It is such a love that
reassembles our African and Asiatic fragments, the cracked heirlooms whose restoration shows its white scars. This
gathering of broken pieces is the care and pain of the Antilles, and if the pieces are disparate, ill-fitting, they
contain more pain than the original sculpture, those icons and sacred vessels taken for granted in their ancestral
places. Antillean art is the restoration of our shattered histories, our shards of vocabulary, our archipelago
becoming a synonym for pieces broken off from the original continent.
Derek Walcott, “The Antilles: Fragments of Epic Memory.” Nobel Lecture December 7 1992. NobelPrize.org.

I've been feeling lost for a while now. A quite long while. I always knew I was headed somewhere, I just didn't know where.
I thought that was just an age thing, but now I've grown up and still kinda feel that way.

Don't get me wrong, things have changed, but I still have some things to resolve.