circulation of things

Russian literary critic and writer Dmitry Bykov once observed that in classical Russian literature, there is no true image of “home.” The protagonists are in a state of perpetual wandering, striving to find truth, seeking refuge. Their fates intertwine with those of others, are woven into the grand tapestry of history, they embody eternal archetypes and sometimes even attain recognition, but they remain unable to find peace or a sense of belonging.

In Alexander Pushkin’s poem “It’s time, my friend, it’s time” two lines reflect this deep sense of displacement: “Youth has no need for ‘at home,’”and “There is no happiness in this world, but there is peace and freedom.” Yet even that peace seems attainable only beyond death, in some otherworldly realm.

As someone raised in this culture, immersed in these narratives, I find myself returning to this question not on the scale of universal truths, but in relation to my own path:
Where is this lost home I long for? How do I find it? In that search, I’ve wandered from city to city, country to country over the past few years, and yet no place has answered me. But through each of them runs a story, my path interlaces with the lives of others. We are echoes of each other. We all carry the memory of those we’ve grown close to. And even if we lose every shared photograph, delete every message, throw away every postcard and physical object that once connected us, our lives remain irreversibly marked by those crossings of fate.

This is something that belongs only to a human being, something that can never be taken away. Not just memories, but we ourselves our habits, tastes, gestures, quirks, and ways of seeing the world have been shaped by others.

And maybe we ourselves are the home that no one can take from us? A home that won’t collapse in the face of cataclysms or war. A home that holds the destinies of other people, endlessly weaving in and out of our own.
This infinite circulation of other people’s stories, absorbed by us, forming an unbreakable bond.