In 2010, I went to London. I want to go back so badly. I think I left my heart and passion and emotions there… something logical I left there.


See, I think my logic went away when I was romanced with the site of Big Ben. The hands go tick, tock, tick, tock… and my heart went pound, pound, pound, iwanttolivehereforever.

My family is from an area in English, although I’m not sure on the specific latitude and longitude. Don’t GPS that… don’t guide me home. I like to keep London in the magic of my imagination. I like a lot of things there. If I didn’t keep them there, the world would be a little more depressing.



As the beat of the clock exposes the realness in my veins, I left my heart on the Thames and the Tube. I left everything I have… everything I am, there.

Why? How? Why do I think things like this?

Because, since then, I haven’t been able to remain composed or put together. I am still stuck. I changed. I am difference. And I guess that’s a good thing… but when you see your origin, you can’t go back to who you were. When you are exposed to who you truly are, you cannot go back. And, just like that, I am different.


London changed me.

But why has it been two years? Why can’t I find myself again?

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