The Foreigner- written version (A Short Story/A Literary Form)

She doesn’t belong to home, she doesn’t belong abroad. She finally realizes she’ll always be a foreigner, only belonging to her.

Standing on the edge of the bridge, feeling the winds that have travelled through a thousand years, she thinks of letting go and travelling a million years with the wind… but winds stop, they fade and lose strength; eventually, she’ll end up somewhere else where she is a foreigner.

She sits and fades into her soul. The only stable she can find, the only place where she is home. She breathes in the winds and sinks further and deeper within.

She thinks… thinks of how to share her soul…how to help the world understand her own culture. So she takes her brush and strokes the story of her soul on the canvas she knows will age, fade and erase the story that no one fully understand.

She risks it all…etches her soul on the impermanent canvas of the worlds that are not home to her.

After 999,999 strokes, she leaves canvas and hopes that someone out there will recognize a home in her soul and answer the final stroke.

Can you hear me? Can you find me in 999,999 strokes? I bare all but 1… please find my soul… so I can share a home.

 

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