I have never felt that I truly belong to this world.
I have always felt somehow like an ovni, a unicorn, or a different kind of creature.
I was interested in poetry when others wanted to play. My sanctuary was to write about my own thoughts, to contemplate, to feel. My peace was alone time, and to be out of spaces of comparison.
Movement was my medicine. Words the deepest healing.
I discovered that I was feeling comfortable in each faraway city; exploring alone to me was a joyful game, a favorite song, the most exciting thing. I started to know foreign cities more than French ones. Some of my best memories are about roaming around London, Phnom Penh, New York City—getting lost, being amazed at people I would never see again, entering a museum or a bookstore unexpectedly.
Making the unknown familiar. Becoming part of the foreign. Landing somewhere where nothing is known, and starting there to experience, to live—to be a story.
I never truly wanted to climb the stairs or the usual agenda of the successful girl of our century—instead, I wanted to find peace in my heart, in my soul, to feel peace.
I never truly felt comfortable in spaces where one can’t rest, can’t feel, talk about their feelings. I never felt comfortable with mocking, games about others, gossiping to feel taller.
I never truly understood what on Earth we were all looking for if not feeling this sweet calmness, this sensation of all is safe and well and free—within. This sort of quiet joy almost detached from its surroundings.
As a girl, I would watch Autumn trees fall down and think it was the most romantic thing to see trees decorating the ground in orange like that, naturally and without sound, a flowing rearrangement of things.
I still feel this disconnect from some activities, some souls, at times. This awkward feeling of being weird, different, of not getting the world like others do.
This, has been my biggest curse and my biggest joy, strength, and golden secret too.
I think I am too much of a romantic. Or of a feeler. Or of a creature of a distinct kind. Or perhaps I come from another century. Maybe another country.
It is a land where personal freedom is an anthem and allowing one’s feelings the utmost remedy.
This place, it is called, “A Wild Woman’s Country.”