it’s a sweet little fantasy. the way life runs it’s fingers through my hair and tells me that good things come in threes. the way she tells me cooking is a form of love, that sunday mornings spent in bed is time well spent. that food from my home is the best I can get, all those spices and sweets and freshly baked delights. she tells me that I’ve been working so hard. that this obsession for success is a form of self destruction.
and honestly, I know it is. I know that I destroy myself for a system that could replace me as soon as I falter. but how. how do I find the balance between legacy and enjoyment. how do I hold the little bird between my hands without breaking her wing.
so I wake up early (even on sunday mornings) and force myself to be productive. I order takeout and remind myself to call my mother because I miss the taste of home. I realise the language of my homeland has faded on my tongue. and that I’ve spent so much time outside of the sun that my gold skin has lost its shine.
complacency has made me lose myself.