I’m sleepless in 5A, next to the window, overlooking a patchwork of green, blue and yellow.
I am slightly nervous about landing the motherland and as bewildered with the idea of flying in a huge heavy object across you-can-look-but-you-can't-touch lands.
I’m always struck by the schism between memory and reality. The layers of emotion leech the paved sidewalks of their cracks, soften the sadness on people’s faces and discount the poverty that my country has been slowly emerging from. I do not remember the eeriness of walking through the empty streets alone at night, or the drunken beggars stumbling through them in the middle of the day or the sad-but-true fact that I feel like a foreigner once the initial effect of coming home has worn off.