I have lived in minority amidst the streets and avenues of the city I so willingly afflicted myself with as but the bud of a flower yet to bloom, transplanted from the open fields of the valley into a pot, no longer connected to the world in such the way that I was before.
My minority is that of those children who spend their short lives building “the big city” up in their minds as the monolith of culture that seems nonexistent along the simple, ancient roads out in the country.
I tried for some time to thrive in my flower pot, but as my shadow grew longer I realized just how out of place I really was. My petals and leaves wilted and fell upon soil never renewed, I grew parched of water and malnorished of nutrients, but I did not die. I was stubborn enough to stay in that pot, and eventually grew fearful of leaving it because I had changed so completely in my time within it.
I had grown cynical without the brilliance of my petals. I had become angry with a lack of proper care. I no longer fit in amidst the beauty of the fields, yet remained an outsider among the houseplants who thrived in their pots. I was a wild thing tamed by what convenience I found in captivity, how could I ever find a place to call home having now belonged to two worlds, and because of this, no world at all?