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Notes from a "third culture child".

Updated on August 24, 2013

The wheels touched down and I stepped out into the balmy night air. Immediately my mind and heart were washed in memories. The airport is the same, but different. There, right there, is where my mother stood, sunglasses hiding her tears, sending me off to college. But the significant people of that childhood era are not here any more. Who do I run to?
This is the ground where my feet learned to walk, run, dance. These mountains stood watch as I grew, these shores washed my feet, and here the sunset waved its good night ritual each evening. This music tuned my ear, my body was built with this food. These narrow streets and noisy shops don't know me now, but they are like seeing the face of an old friend. This dusty dry city shook its chains around my artist's soul that could never be restrained.
What sweet pain this is, coming here to find myself a stranger. And home, which never has found a resting place here on earth, still awaits me.

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