Personal Narrative-The Speckled People

There was no possibility of seeing anyone that day. It was raining. The weather was non negotiable. The people who dared to step foot outside had regretted their decisions to do so. Although I was perturbed by the event, I was glad as well.

The weather had never been my friend. I always came home with some sort of damage that could only be traced back to nature’s will. It was the middle of Autumn, and the leaves had begun to fall from their longtime homes. People held the superiority against most creatures. Unlike most, I was humbled by my inferiority against them.

I gathered myself and my belongings around the fire set out upon myself in the drawing room. For the most part, I was bedridden; on the bright side of the situation, I could still move. At one moment in my life, I actually thought I could have been happy. I was in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition. I did this to appear as if I actually had some life inside of myself. I was excluded from most privileges that were intended for normal, content children. But all was fine.

There were so many places that I wanted to go to, but they were all too far away. I started to read a book, The Speckled People: A Memoir of a Half-Irish Childhood, “Maybe your country is only a place you make up in your own mind. Something you dream about and sing about. Maybe it 's not a place on the map at all, but just a story full of people you meet and places you visit, full of books and films you 've been to. I 'm not afraid of being homesick and having no language to live in. I don 't have to be like anyone else. I 'm walking on the wall and nobody can stop me.” I believe that the physical borders between our countries are only the mental borders that stop us from