I’ll emigrate. Far into wilderness,

of some forest mentioned in my sixth grade geography book.

Not to grow up. Just to take my time,

climb a few peaks and build my own house on a mountain slope.

Waking up. To look out,

soft morning sun flattering my room, my space.

Finding heaven. As I sniff, nose-deep into books,

calming me down with their scent and contents.

I fall silent. 

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