My connection to my culture, my heritage, and my home feels to me almost like a phantom limb. A part of my identity, one which gives me a place in life, is but a distant sensation. They're not completely gone, but remain as spectres of what once was, and the burn I feel as I try to recall them is a constant reminder that I am not as whole as I think I am.
My mind exists as an expanse of lines, holding information about everything I've ever known, but the ones that matter the most are fading rapidly.
Where is my home? If not with my culture, then where else? I feel as though I live within a series of disconnects even in my own domestic settings -- there is a numbness that accompanies the parts of me I'm losing, and the feeling migrates throughout my body.
Some days, my hands feel foreign to me. Some nights, I can't get the pins and needles out of my legs. Am I home? Put your slippers on in the house, my mother says. It's why you're always getting sick. I'm hesitant to put the slippers on. Where are my house clothes? If I don't feel like this is home, why would I wear them?
More thoughts to explore soon.