“Maybe your country is only a place you make up in your own mind.”

Borrowing others’ words to speak my heart yet again because I keep coming up empty. I’m sorry, I promise I’m genuinely trying. Don’t force the process.

Maybe your country is only a place you make up in your own mind. Something you dream about and sing about. Maybe it’s not a place on the map at all, but just a story full of people you meet and places you visit, full of books and films you’ve been to. I’m not afraid of being homesick and having no language to live in. I don’t have to be like anyone else. I’m walking on the wall and nobody can stop me.

— Hugo Hamilton,
    The Speckled People: A Memoir of a Half-Irish Childhood

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