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Always Ticking
The clock is ticking, like it has been all my life.
I sit and stare at my ceiling. My University of Kentucky flag sits on my bookshelf in all its glory, and a dream of Vassar College hangs over my head like the sword above Damocles’ throne. A traditional Mexican dress hangs in my closet, squished between jerseys and an old Quinceñera dress.
The clock is always ticking.
An old diary of mine contains the scribbles of an eight year old girl, discontent with her boredom in the house she should have grown up in. Her parents had long ago decided to move to a foreign land rather than stay on their own soil, so the only times she saw her own country were the few days her family went on vacation.
In these pages of her diary, she writes. She yearns to go back to her home- the real one, not the place she was born. The pages are filled with the musings of her boredom. In her head, Kentucky pales in comparison to Astana, where the ads aren’t annoyingly constant and the bugs aren’t always out. Astana is much better, she concludes. In Astana, she is free to do as she pleases; she is free to speak with her friends and hide in her room. At least in Astana, she is not bored all the time and waiting for the day she can go back home.
But in truth, once you push past all the superficial flaws, you realize that Kentucky was never the problem. At least, not for her.
In Kentucky, she hides under a bunk bed and waits for the day when she isn’t alone.
Another diary sits on my bedside table, this time with the reflections of a fifteen year old girl. In Mexico, she waits for the day when she isn’t walking. The city is constant, vibrant, friendly; she relishes the beauty of an empire torn down long ago and a city that has stayed strong ever since. She is tired, as she always is- except this time, every corner of her mind is taken up by a city that brightens her smile and calms her soul. Here, she has family; here, she knows who she is.
Here, she is not alone.
And yet, the city is just out of reach, for her tongue knows not the language they speak.
All her life, the clock has been ticking.
She belongs in Kazakhstan, where she has been all her life; she belongs in the place where she first learned to ride a bike, where she made lifelong friends, where her experiences changed her life.
But she had always known that her home in Astana was a temporary arrangement. She couldn't stay forever.
So in Kazakhstan, she waits for the day that the clock stops ticking.
And I wait for the day where I can finally find a place I well and truly belong.
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Gabriela Lewis Celis is a fifteen year old writer who mostly spends her time daydreaming about college and thinking about storylines. Her writing is primarily based on her life experiences as a queer Mexican-American teenager. She hopes to one day pursue a career in writing.