“Home is not where you were born;
home is where all your attempts to escape cease.”
— Naguib Mahfouz


The one thing that sucks about living abroad while having too close a connection to home is time zones. Time fucking zones.

I woke up today, a busy-but-outwardly-calm Sunday to what else, baggage. In another time zone, shit hit the fan while I was, well – I was blissfully asleep in this time zone; oblivious. I woke up to an incident that surprised me little and though it did not directly concern me, of course it was successful with one thing: opening old scars. Already late for my morning meeting, I rushed to the meeting place, but the whole time – my mind swirled elsewhere, trapped in a different time zone.

Sometimes you move so far, only to realize, time and time again, that in truth –

you haven’t moved even an inch.


Sometimes I think, the irony.

You gave us the world, presented it in handful and abundance to us through words and photos and stories such that when we were old enough to understand and appreciate and want it for ourselves – you welcomed that, but with a condition. Stretch your wings, you said, but never give it away or exchange it for something or someone else.

How can you give me – us – the world and expect us to be unchanged, unweathered…



Yesterday I woke up with a sinking feeling;

I am scared, scared, scared –

My mind, expansive that it has become from these years abroad, will be muted, silenced, and eventually driven to a vacuum. Defeated. That coming home was a mistake, everything about it – because the girl who left and this one who is returning are not one and the same. What if everything about home is a mistake, and it is too late now?


I love you.

But you cannot extend my wings, make expansive my mind, nurture my multi-dimensional perspectives, encouraged my growth through sights and seeing of horizons beyond the borders of home…

…and expect me to stay contained.


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