The Borders we Cross

by Thisuri Perera

Nothing is ever taken for granted in the world we exist; in the lives we

lead in other people’s countries. No one is ever aware of the transparent

walls in between us and the air we merge into so naturally. Invisible.

Though not untouchable. The very opposite in fact. Penetrable- as

rapid as a sponge absorbing water when submerged into the kitchen

sink. Then, once turned too full to fit into human hands, they complain

of the heaviness of our insides. They believe it is done on purpose, out

of spite, these burdens we carry. They forget of the borders we crossed,

the Borders We Cross daily.

I would like to believe life will not always be this sorrowful.

Then I feel guilty for finding faults in what was meant to be solace.

Though there is no peace without conflict, and real healing requires

deep enough wounds to form scabs over them. At least that is what I

have been taught, it is what I have picked up from the behaviour of adults

around me. Adults too preoccupied with being people themselves to

raise smaller ones. Though I do not blame them; I do not blame others

for my heart no more.

Far too much is left unconsidered when it comes to matters of the

human heart. No one understands where to start or where to end. I,

too, find it troublesome to find finitude.

Finitude withing wells of sadness is ironic at best.

There are borders we have crossed and borders we cross daily.

There will always be more to achieve, more to leave behind, more to

transgress from.

There will always be more to take and try make your own- even if it

makes you bleed through your teeth, even if it ruins every careful castle

you build amidst grey clouds.

70I have written so many words in the emptiness of my bedroom, in the

dim light of the moonshine. Words I erase every morning, when I wake

up still drenched in fatigue.

I have asked myself many times before

How many more borders to cross?

Talking is one of them.

Walking is another-

Into rooms full of ghosts, especially.

In 2024, almost 120 million people have been forcefully displaced from

their homes.

I have asked myself for as long as I can remember, what it might feel like

to have a home.

Losing one, I too am familiar with.

Though it happens in a multitude of ways.

There are far too many ways in which you can lose a home. Far too many

ways in which you can forget the roads of your hometown, those you

knew like the palm of your childish hand.

Far too many ways you can erase an entire identity. Far too many ways

to find excuses for doing it.

There are a 120 million ways to lose a home- if not more. Today, I sit

comfortably in a bed and tell myself

I am fortunate today, though I have not been so before.

And my heart aches and wishes for the same thoughts to come greet

you one day too.

We lose, we fight, we break, and we sacrifice.

There are borders we crossed, borders we cross daily,

And there are homes we have lost, and homes we will keep re-building.