I hadn’t written a thing until I landed in a place that unspooled the words from me like perfect mango from the skin.

The Netherlands, with all its fairy-tale delight, childlike charm. Curved bicycles without handbrakes and tiny pubs that light up like a bedside lamp. Little apartments filled with light and stylish backpacks. Miniature gumboots worn by blonde children who ride push carts like cherubs on Valium and beautiful women with roused cheeks who wear large scarves and expensive leather. Men with strawberry hair pushed back into a breaking wave, sky blue eyes, and tabby cats napping on brick windowsills. It’s a beautiful place where I don’t belong, locked out of a world by the invisible lines of language and unsaid knowledge. To observe, like a painting on the opposing side of space: grand displays of haloed fruits that spill with untastable pleasure, or a daring gaze that beckons you toward an untouchable palm.

I wasn’t happy at first, but what’s that worth, anyway? Why chase just that? Happiness? It's only one emotion in the technicolour extravaganza bombastic blooming of It All. Maybe I’ll embrace the rest: the shame, sadness, fear, hope, disappointment, excitement and deep peace. I’ll embrace the ugly spice my humanity has to offer like the breathlessness of stained glass visible only from the opposing side of light.