No one warned me that being an immigrant meant being stuck in time.
My life is anything but simple. But my life has hardly ever been what it appears from the outside. You could argue I'm the perfect candidate for being an influencer. Fake it for the world when on the inside I'm seething with rage and dissatisfaction. But the truth is, despite years in this world, I haven't exactly learned how to be two things at once.
Linearity is where I am at home.
I start my day happy, I'm kind to everyone I meet. I'm politer, feel charitable, an urge to do a lot more, a belief in a happy world reinstated. I'm efficient, I shop for groceries, cook dinner, plan the next days meal, feel obliged to give advice to the one I love, hold back nasty words that sting, simply give the ones around my space to be. That kinda linear.
But steadiness comes from belonging. And for so long I have felt like I belong, I had forgotten how the opposite of it could ravage my very being.
You know its easy to be bright and brave at work when you can reach your workplace without the help of GPS? Friendlier with colleagues when you're familiar with their inside chatter? Speak up when you don't have to worry about rent. Or simply plan when the present isn't holding you back.
Being yourself - is a lofty expectation. And being an immigrant is the perfect mockery of it.
I'm a fool, a lost fool, guddling for gold in a mud pond. Trying to look past the syzygy, hoping the mothership will take me home.
