Loss and fondness

The bright light that I saw when you were born, as I felt overwhelmed with love and tears rolled down my cheeks, I realized one thing: life.

Through the legends and the words of my land: I felt their hate.

I became aware of them, of those other lands, of the injustice inflected upon us.

Through their love of beauty I aspired to reach their goals.

One fate-full day I left running, leaving all that behind, and a family sick worried about me.

I went to those foreign lands that our narrators of yore tell about in our mother tongue.

I saw those places, now long traversed; now being traversed.

Little by little, as I saw and lived amongst those people my folk and kindred so ill spoke of, I began to see their dreams along the dreams of the land of my birth.

In the along, I questioned my origins and the very voices that gave me an identity. I wondered outloud whether I was who my people said I was. (Was my mind freed?)

For every sojourn I undertook: left behind was the time I spent there; in return my luggage was heavy with memories, of theirs, remembering how for a while I was one of them.

People too, wondered, whence cometh I, so many times, that I lost myself and began seeing me as much as they did.

(To the contrary) In an effort to recuperate a sense of being I became more like my ancestors: I lived like I thought they lived just to exercise how they were; how I used to be; how I am.

(Nowadays, it seems at times):

All I have left is my one and only remaning value anyone can associate itself with me: life.

Yet not too many do …

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