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In all these years of being in the United States, the one unaltered feeling underneath it all has been the feeling of not belonging. Most of it is my own doing – building root has never been my priority. I’ve been too busy chasing dreams. I’ve had a crazy winding road for a journey; I’ve taken my time through it, and honestly, I’d live it the same way all over again.

I wouldn’t change adventures. I wouldn’t change mistakes. The only thing I’d change is the scenery. When I was being reckless with my new-found freedom as an adult, being home would have made all the difference.

Home. I think about it, a lot. I sometimes think about my inability to stay in one place long enough, and where I will go next. And then I remind myself that I don’t belong to my own ground, anyway. What difference does another flight make?

I have lived for so long without a foundation that it feels normal. Every day, I feel like I am neither here, nor there.

I watch from afar, as things happen. Where I live, great speeches are made – promises are applauded. Authority, is respected. Secret smirks fly every once in a while, but never shoes and chairs. No one will be too concerned from tomorrow, but today, everyone cares.

Where I don’t live – also promises made. However, no one uses words. No agendas or ambitious projects are launched. Nothing is said about a possible future where I – along with my lost generation – can return and rebuild.

Not that I am waiting for someone to change something. I know better than to complain when I haven’t done anything.

I am also not desperate to haphazardly lead a country.

From where I stand – a safe distance from politics — I place no blame and point no fingers. When things go right, over here, I take no credit. When things go south, over there, I take no blame. I don’t belong, here or there.

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