This area of my life is so shaded that I start to believe that it never existed. That it never happened. Until I’m reminded of my realities by subtle nuances, like, remembering that I can’t travel because of a confiscated passport, to waking up each day in a room unfamiliar to me for the past thirteen years, or the fact that I no longer feel the warmth of the woman I fell in love with next to me, to not being able to hear the pitter-patter of my son coming up the stairs to our room to wake us and squeeze between my wife and I every morning. This explains my inability to sleep. I hate that fucking shade. Because once the windows crack open and the flames of reality blaze through, I am engulfed with that overwhelming emotion of all is lost and happiness and rest can never truly be found in it.