On making horcruxes.

Maybe we should go back to a time where people didn't have the option to move away from their hometowns and to all corners of the earth in pursuit of dreams, friends, love(r)s, lives, happiness, self-fulfilment, freedom...or simply jobs.

I'm aware this might not be a very popular opinion.

But here's the thing:

Each time I move, I leave part of my soul and my heart behind. And quite frankly, I'm sick of it.

I've done my share of moving over the years. I spent 19 years there, one year there, seven years there, one more year there, now six years here... Every time I tried to build a new life, be open, make an effort to settle in, to fit in, to make new friends, to weave myself a little safety network of people who ideally might catch me if I fall or simply be available for coffees, chats and dvd-nights in.

And it's certainly doable, in some places easier than in others. It might happen without you really noticing or  take a huge amount of effort, of trial and error.

And then at some point, for some reason you have to move. Or feel you have to move. Or think you should move but cannot face the idea of having to start from scratch. But that's only half of it. What I really cannot face is leaving people behind. Again.

How many ways can you split a soul? Seven seems to be the currently accepted number. It's been done. But parallel universe precedence also tells us that it is not recommended. At all. That it ought not be attempted. Even, or especially, if you place those pieces of your soul not into inanimate objects but something as fragile as other human beings.

So here I am, stuck in the middle of all those worlds I have so far been part of.

It's a case of being overwhelmed by the mere idea of having to start over.

It's a case of wanting to belong somewhere. Of putting down roots. (But where? Heaven forbid if I choose the wrong place!)

It's a case of ultimate indecisiveness. Of wanting to feel complete. And of the realization that apparently that's not gonna happen.