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My isolation has been here since childhood, running the street of Hargeisa, watching my mentally ill uncle wander the same streets. After his death my new chapter adult and wanting male attention I got sick with a severe depresssion, my mother not knowing what to do took me abroad to heal through my requests.
India, Italy where my places of coming of age, movies and music my campanions. Rain man in Italy, my first introduction to Autism, feared I had it or even Aids in Somalia in my teens.
Learning French my class was good yet I never went back. I sometimes blame other for my sickness'. Here in the land of the free we struggle to fix our roads and keep our toilets clean unless you live sheltered in a beautiful house small or big it's ok cause it's about the culture: a mix of poverty, illatracy and inflated economy.
My heart is with the working poor their ills far away from my comfortable life, yet their shit smell like mine sometimes I think.
