Sometimes I look back at the same skyscrapers at the same serene sky and the same sensation that made my mind sink into an ocean of seeking something, yet again.

  I did not know what this sensation was, but it seemed to prick my mind dry of its imagination and attention I was stuck in this ocean now, trapped like a fish in a birdcage; flopping around in shallow mud that coated my scales.

  There was a dark age that made this ocean plummet to its midnight zone, the light and hope of finding what I was seeing for, gone.

  It was a cold, vast land that seemed stuck in time, distant. In the center of it all were the same skyscrapers that gave me a sense of hope. This hope was short lived as I realized that death was not freedom. There are things worse than death in this little world of ours. Death is just an in-between where we can rest. An eternal sleep that closes our minds.

  It is said that the land the traveler travels on is not foreign, rather the traveler is foreign. Perhaps that is the reason I felt so alone, and seeked, not just the meaning but the liberation of death.

  I was the foreigner.

  It almost makes me wonder if others thought I was just invading their land, or I was just another living, human being.

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  Did they know that, I too, wanted to find what I was seeking for?

  Eventually I sprouted legs, I was adapting to this world.

  Lush trees and throned brambles clawed their gnarled limbs at me, swaying dangerously.

  In the distance I could the skyscrapers in the center of it all, rising and falling as if they were also human beings, breathing in the humidity.

  What if the things we didn't think were even human were actually human, meaning that they could also perform the same amount of empathy, intellect, and creativity as us?

  What if the things that we observed in life had more meaning, just like how the domino or butterfly effect happens; small events in our life could change everything?

  What if the things that seemed human or felt like they had a deeper meaning were a trap? A trap so carefully crafted that it was made to drain the observer and inquisitor, thus snapping their neck all in the grand scheme of things.

  I never got an answer to any of these questions because I never asked them.

  I was scared of being weird, quirky a foreigner to these people's minds.

  However, I soon adapted more and more to this world, no longer becoming the foreigner. I had finally found what I was seeking for, my purpose in life. It wasn't to adapt or to change myself but rather be myself.

  As I finally stand on the roof of these skyscrapers, my form so adapted that the world or thing I was seeking for seems foreign. My mind had seemed to forget its attentiveness, imagination, and open-mindedness to venture to what I would presume foreign.

  As many people would refer it to being "stuck in the mud." Now it seems like I will always be the foreigner, adapting to other's whims and wishes, wistfully adapting once again.