Now, flash forward to two years later: I'm sitting in bed a week before departure from my work to back home, almost forgetting to eat, my mind drowning in news reports and social media. In short, it has been a very disappointing summer, with killings, terrorism, existentialism, and overall insanity intensified. If I could define this shift in one image, it would be thinking that a fire broke out from within my mind: one in which I can only save a few tidbits of my previous life, and leave the other pieces to burn if I wish to continue living.

Times like these are when questions of my identity pop back open, much to my chagrin. In pure honesty, I don't feel like an American due to how minorities are treated on a daily basis. My ideals and perspectives often clash with those from my similar Caribbean background, which is also isolating me from embracing a "true" Jamaican identity. Often, I feel as though I'm the bastard child of two worlds, both being somewhat indifferent to my well-being. The difference here is that in this state, I'm a complete foreigner to cultures that I'm a part of; things that I should know, but don't; traits that I should have, but don't; pride that allows me to survive the day, but, once again, doesn't. I believe that part of my reason for wanting to go to another country or for learning different languages stems from the fact that I want to be part of a culture that accepts me wholly... but it's unrealistic. I'm hiding from something that exists everywhere, and I won't exist without conflict; be it the cause of racism or another capability.

Regardless, is there a reason I still continue knocking on the doors of different opportunities not intended for me, being both aware of my identity and the challenges I will face, both physically and mentally? I'm deliberately a wrecking ball; I show up in places where I'm neither wanted nor needed; I'm going into cultures and periods that I have no part of due to my identity and I'm trying to forge new identity from the wood chips and splinters I find from past debris. Maybe it gives me a reason to muscle through college classes that represent anything but me. Maybe it's how I'm still able to interact with others despite being bled and drained of humanity. Maybe I'm inspired by the likes of James Baldwin, W.E.B. DuBois, and other African-Americans who were able to make another country their own.

I'll probably end up dying in another state of mind, both imagined and in a place I've never heard of, still thinking of where I truly felt the most comfortable, if that was a place at all. For me, living such a life is about trying to accept and understand it as a story where, like the stars, it'll be swept up and faded into dust despite my ambitions. Do I eventually learn how to love the titanic boulder I'm pushing up the mountain?