My world. My world is a series of strung memories, slow songs, copper streetlights dancing over my skin during long car rides, first kisses yet to be shared, poems yet to be read, apologies I was too afraid to make, mistakes I don’t know how to undo, pulse punching through me every moment I write, and the laughs that I have yet to enjoy. My world is not only my world; it is your world, her world, his world, our world. The lines of my world are not defined. I have not found my world, but am creating it. My world is a glorious accident, a turbulent land. My world cannot fit into four pages. My world is experienced in a life so minuscule, so short, yet so colossal. My world is the only place where I, a creation, have the power to also be a creator.
I want to tell you about the experiences, the words, the opaque tears, the translucent smiles, the wrinkles on my hands. But I can’t. I want to take all my deepest fears and struggles and pour them onto this page. But I can’t. You cannot clarify your world through undressing yourself with words. You can only make another soul understand your home through sprinkling insight with letters, with honesty that pours down one’s throat like honey. And I am going to create a door into a piece of my world, allowing the warmth of its sunlight to embrace you gently.
My universe can be condensed by describing a place I visited. The home of my ancestors. A universe different from ours – one where there were barriers.
