when people ask me where i’m from, there’s always a moment of hesitance to respond
is it wrong to say that i am simply a citizen of the world?
alas, the world is my home
i long to scour it for its carefully hidden intricacies, just as a child rummages through long-forgotten picture books piled upon each other in the corner
it is as though they had been lying in wait all this time, eager for me to uncover them
to brush away the dust that had gathered across the years, the only reminder of the time that has passed by since they were last discovered
my home is not constructed of walls and brick, but delicately stitched of countless experiences
the days i walked along the seine, enrobed in blissful peace
the times i laughed with strangers as though we had known each other longer than we cared to remember
the way the backdrop of a newly discovered city seems to brim perpetually with romance
i am but a child of this earth,
a citizen of the world,
hoping to leave something behind that might be worth discovering
