This, right here, shall be our own world.

I do not want a borrowed world. I want a world that is mine — a world that can make one say, “Ah, this — this is her world. The colors of the stars are so lovingly hers.”

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How many times have humans messed up that the world now echoes the mistakes we fail to correct? The cracked streets with the old footprints of those who ran away, the dead tree that stopped believing after having been abandoned, and the barren wall facing a glass building that reflects its lonesome difference. The death of this world isn’t weighed by the grievances it has endured, but by the hope it continues to nurture.

It will get better — a beautiful sky will come, a bird will hum, and a home will be built.

Was the world only put here to give the hopeless more false hopes?

Imagination keeps us alive, because we think, we wonder, and we desire.

This, in my mind, is the sky I want to see everyday and not just during the bad days. This, in my heart, is the calmness my world will give me before I fall asleep. This, in my hands, will be all the love my world will give me.

This borrowed world, as cruel as it may sound, will never feel and understand what holds you together — not the hope you turn to when things disappoint you, not the dreams that love you dearly, not the time you plead to slow down, not the happiness you wish to bear, and not the sorrows you pray to disappear. This borrowed world only sees you as both flesh and bones, a body of vulnerable upbringings that must take care of the world, and when you forget to do that, it will punish you.

In my own world, I will not be aching. In my own world, when I’m not in the right state of mind to love it, it will not hurt me.

I want a universe of my own where I can paint my own stars and give the moon a companion, where the sun doesn’t bring damage and the air won’t hurt. My universe will be colorful.

Is the world really ours? Mine? If it is not mine, then why not just give me a world of my own? A world where I can be myself and bring about an art I want to create. Why put me in a world that isn’t mine and where I cannot be who I am? Why give me a world that doesn’t allow me to clutch onto what I know is mine?

I would rather be homeless than be in a house that doesn’t welcome me.

If in this borrowed world my stars wouldn’t align, then in my world, they will. The skies wouldn’t be cloudy, and I wouldn’t be pointing at turtle-shaped clouds. In my world, in the sky, I will be pointing at my reflection, because the heavens will be clear, and it will look at me instead of me looking at it. If in this borrowed world a beautiful sky sweeps people off their feet, then in my own world, it won’t be something out of the ordinary — in my world, everyday, everything will be beautiful.

This world will be mine, and I will make it beautiful.

But right now, this borrowed world is all I have, so I will try to make it something lovely— that will be my life; this promise will be my world. And it is beautiful.