Even a year and something later, my whole life in Holland still feels like a fictional story.
most days I am mist, somedays I am rain. On rare occasions I am the sun, something that shines even if everyone has shades on to block it.
I question, are we even alive if no one we love is watching? how do you pull the need for community from the sky of your mouth. When does individuality stop feeling like a burden?
does this mean I don't have a voice? I, the same woman who spend all her teen years wishing she was dead to everyone around her -
stays conflicted with the way this foreignness swallows my existence
There's a wake everyday here, I no longer know who I am mourning. pull up to the university without any flowers, refuse to cry, but still carry the sad of everyone else.
..the problem with the universe is that it always gives you what you ask for, even if you don't like it.
