“You Don’t Belong Here”

Inan unguarded moment, my thumb was crushed. Blood spilled out. What began as fun quickly turned into a nightmare. The shock sponged my tears, save the beads of cold sweat that were beginning to form. I felt a sense of horror. My friend Isaac cringed, and his throat tightened. His eyes bulged. Gathering himself, he staggered forward, grabbed my hand, and yelled for help. Via Sapegno is a wind monster. You’ll often find people chasing umbrellas, fighting to keep their dresses down, cringing, and hiding their faces in their palms as they walk by. Only the trees, with shrewd and flexible disobedience, resisted the wind. I stepped out of the house and, immediately, frowned, as a gush of wind hits me. “Not again!” I hate it here — the dryness, the wind, and the heat. “Why can’t it… have at least one friggin beach?” I lament. There is a lot of bitterness in my heart towards many things. Deep within, I felt out of place. But it was a feeling I never took the time to question. So it never occurred to me that I was often out of sorts — and out of character. <blockquote> The way in which we see the world has a lot to do with the way we see ourselves. </blockquote> Shutting the door behind me, My big cast arm dangling on my chest, I began my daily melancholic walk to the supermarket. <a href="https://medium.com/the-memoirist/you-dont-belong-here-822b04db956e">Visit Now</a>