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Alba Galocha

I’m not sure of this whole NGO thing. I thought I was, but I’m not. I definitely felt send by God, to see and do good, but now I’m here, I question, my everything. My stay. My path. My journey.

Should I continue writing? Is it doing me any good? Where do I go next? What’s with the past, future? Where do I put Teo? SLAA? My Self?

I’m not sure of much, anymore.

I’m in Cusco, Peru. It is cold, rainy, beautiful, grey. Sometimes blue, skies, sun, shine. I had a lovely day out but I feel as if I fake it. I go to the movies with people that are not, my friends. I just met them, days ago. I’m not sure what’s real, what’s true, any more. What do I want? Where do I go next?

I thought of this big scheme, where I’d be a human rights lawyer, after firing it up in Peru. Lima. Mexico. Wherever I’m welcome, I’ll be. Now I just want to come home. To a place where I belong, where do I belong, to myself, Brené Brown says. What’s with my writing? Should I continue or let it go? Let it be? Just as love, fades, lies, fly, life, fools, me, time after time after time?

I’m not sure.

And so it is.

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