slow

Writing comes slow these days, but I've got to write.

Last night I dreamed about Hungary again. The refugee camp was much different~ much nicer, more like a small city. I remember pulling out the envelope (that is currently sitting on my desk in Cincinnati) that still has about thirty dollars worth of forints in it, and buying some ice cream. I was staying in a small room with six other girls, some of whom I know in this town. I was relieved to be back. It was different, but it was good.

I'm taking a poetry workshop class, and of course I am writing about refugees. I half hate, half love sharing poetry. It's a piece of my soul, sorta, at least a reflection of it. But I want it to be better, too, because I want to share it and I want people to be educated and feel.

Human trafficking used to make my blood boil. It was that kind of passion. The kind of anger to do things with.

The situation of refugees in the world gives a different kind of passion. It makes me so sad. Intense sadness. I read the news on Tuesday (the 15th) morning, and I cried. a lot. I'm okay with that.

This got me good.

But again, I'm having a hard time loving Americans, especially my peers. A really hard time. If we go beyond the small talk it's okay. But on topics of weather and teasing and sarcasm and complaining... what's the point? 

yeah, I want to blog today, recently, but the words are drying up again. That's okay :)