Home Through The Eyes Of Our Inner Child
Home sweet home.. words do not describe the love I have for you. Words do not describe the passion I feel when I breathe you in, when I think of you, when I speak of you.. any time you cross my path. It feels nice being able to relate to others when it comes to having things in common culturally. But in reality, if you are not of the same culture, you do not truly understand what it is to see this place the way the other does. When I think Mexico, I don’t think Peña Nieto. I don’t think Donald Trump’s wall. I don’t think pollution. I don’t think drug trafficking. I don’t think “El Chapo”. I don’t think how corrupt the government is and how fucked up things are. Of course, it runs through my mind. Of course it worries and hurts me. Of course it causes me pain to know that my beloved country has all these issues. But you know what? When I think Mexico, my inner child comes to surface. When I think Mexico, I think love and family. I think vendors on every street corner. I think clothes hung up and drying up on the roof. I think purity in the faces of the ones struggling to make their way through the chaos. When I think Mexico, I see things as a child does. I see hand-made dolls all laid out beneath me. I see warm and friendly souls. I see myself. I see everything.. I see absolutely everything. I feel the purest version of myself. I feel every emotion all at once. I feel the happiest I have ever been in my entire existence. I feel all the love I could ever possibly want in one place. I feel a higher power. I feel tired of anything else I have ever wanted, because being here makes it clear. Because being here makes me careless of anything that does not feed my inner child. Because being here makes me true to who I am. Because being here makes me want to forget the exterior. It brings me to the realization that all I really want is to be here, with my people; With the people I love more than anything. Not just blood. I know deep down that we are all brothers and sisters. Except here, I am reminded of that every second of my time. Much more than I am reminded elsewhere. I can’t help but feel like I am in a dream. I look around and wonder how everyone is so used to all of this. I look around and wonder how strange it must be to not see what I see. I look around and admire every single being. I look around and never want to stop seeing what I see. I never want to leave. Please call me a child. Call me delusional, ignorant, closed-minded, immature, and blind. Call me what you’d like, but never doubt me. Never doubt that what I see is not real; It’s the realest thing I’ve ever known. So again, please call me a child. For the eyes of the child see much further than any of us ever will.