I come from no where. I was not born big. I didn’t excel in school. I didn’t play sports, nor made music with any paint brushes. I did not have a close group of friends, I didn’t find my best friend until 11th grade. I don’t own a car, nor a full-time job. I don’t have what it takes to be fashionable, or shoes with some epic story. My stretch marks run deep towards the roots I harbor no connection with. I don’t market my depression, in fact I can’t even bring myself to speak about it. My perfection doesn’t stem from the straight white teeth that I never had and it’s colors change as the seasons do. Caffeine isn’t my addiction and on coffee chats I prefer orange juice, the world isn’t my oyster and I’m not it’s pearl.

I come from no where. But I am going where I want to. I visit my people every night in vivid realities, some stroke my greying hair, some caress my chubby cheeks. I rejoice in art of making maggi as I space out in the greenery of my imagination. I weave . I carve. I sculpt what I feel and believe in and believe I do that as long as there’s air in my lungs I can create a seat for myself at the tables I want, that as long as I can walk I can run, as long as I can run I can soar, and as long as I can soar, I know the sky is my limit.

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