🌔🦢

Tonight, I stood in the same park where, 31 years ago in September, I spent two weeks before finally finding a room.

Back then, the darkness was heavy, filled with fear and uncertainty. It was wet and raining, and I stayed awake, careful, trying not to sleep. Yet even in that struggle, I felt a kind of freedom, freedom from the violation of my dignity. For the first time, I felt that I belong to this earth, not to my relatives or anyone else, and that it is my home

Now, I pass through this park each evening on my way home from work, not as someone lost, but as someone who has walked a long road since.

The park itself has hardly changed, but I am no longer the same person. The years have carried me forward, teaching resilience, patience, and hope. The park holds my past, but it also whispers of survival, even as the end of life comes into view.

Sometimes a place becomes a mirror, reflecting not what it is, but who we were, and how far we have traveled. 

We have come far, not because of our academic degrees or our wealth, but because of the strength within us, and the peace that comes from no longer fearing the end of life, but still enjoying it.