You ask me what city I'm from but that tells you nothing about who I am or what my life
is like. Where I’m from is not just the name of a town or the foundation of a house. I’m from the deserted playground where pixies slumber, nestled in the crisp green grass. I’m from the mountain trail that winds and wanders endlessly, listening to the ancient trees whisper stories of old. I’m from the woods where honeysuckle hides secluded from the coveting hands of children. I’m from the meadow, a sea of sunlit daisies, where you can hear the enchanting laughter of nymphs, faint like the distant jingling of a jester’s motley. I’m from the cove by the seashore, where mermaids glide through the glistening water, its surface kissed by the sun’s aureate lips. I’m from the memories I grew up with. From the imagination in my mind.