Home exists for me just on the edges of my body. Where the light meets my skin. Or maybe in my memory of a time where everything felt like a guilded mirage protected by the liquid sharp presence of the now. It doesn't seem to me like thats there anymore. At least for a moment. As I travel from state to state, and have resided now in 2 countries, I think to myself that maybe "home" is a pursuit to a destination that may or may not be there when I arrive. Like a mirage humming on the horizon of the dust. I'm on my way there. Everywhere I go. Home follows me around like a little ball of light. I try to reach it but can never grasp. Maybe it's too deep inside, or just too far away. I can feel it's warmth from here. I see you at the campfire of my memory.

(I lived in Jamaica for the first 12 years of my life, then moved to the United States. This artwork has elements in the texutures and colors that reference both nations.)