This is not my world. You don’t own me and I don’t belong here. I belong to the lush green world, filled with grass and trees and flowers. I belong to rolling hills and mountains and rivers and oceans. I belong to fresh air and soft warm wind. I belong to Beethoven and Chopin and Corinne Bailey Rae and James Taylor and Simon and Garfunkel and Stevie Wonder. I belong to the scents of lavender and jasmine and honeysuckle. I belong to hours-long, leisurely bike rides with stops for lunch or to read under a tree. I belong to watermelons and cherries and Satsuma mandarins. I belong to the "Matrix" and "Star Wars" and "Star Trek" and all manners of random science fiction movies. I belong to Charles Dickens and Chimamanda Adichie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Maya Angelou and JRR Tolkien and Jhumpa Lahiri and every one of the Bronte sisters. I belong to Tehran and Shiraz and Den Brielle, to London, Paris and Edinburgh and Capri and Cape Town, to Washington, D.C., and New York. I belong to my girl and my boy and my husband. I belong to all my beloved. I belong to myself.
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