I come from a place where columns of black boots hit the pavement in perfect unison.
I come from a place where the one and only road must fight for space between rice paddies full of tadpoles and tiny insects.
I come from a place where nothing ever happens.
I come from a place that I used to called home.
Home is where I used to stare up at the sky, flat on my back, under a giant shade from a nearby tree gyrating to the gentle summer breeze. At eight years old, I contemplated life’s infinite possibilities, although I can’t quite remember to be honest, distracted by the regional train chugging along few kilometers away from my village.
It is a simple life.
Earthworms rise to the surface at the first sign of rain.
The air fills with the smell of morning mist gently lifting the veil of rising day.
A gaggle of small children giggle on their way to school.
It is a simple place when looking in from the outside, and I wonder how life would have been had it not been for all the darkness, and all the light that poured out of that small town.