“I have always been captivated by the lives and languages of people far from my own. This piece is a reflection on curiosity, respect, and the love I carry for cultures I have yet to touch.”

I have always been drawn to the world outside myself… to the rhythms of languages I do not speak, to streets I have never walked, to skies I have yet to stand beneath. There is a life in language, a heartbeat in culture, and I listen as closely as I can.

Even when I cannot understand the words, I hear the cadence, the rise and fall, the hidden music that belongs to a place and its people. Mandarin or Cantonese, Tagalog or Korean, Japanese or German—they each carry a soul in their tones, a story in their syllables. I notice when the smallest detail shifts, when a rhythm is off, when a sound is not quite what it should be. Some call it obsession; I call it devotion.

The written form sings to me as well. Korean curves in gentle arcs, Chinese strikes with sharp certainty, Japanese flows in graceful ribbons. To many, they appear alike, but I hear the difference, see the rhythm, sense the pulse of lives folded into every character, every stroke. Each line holds a story, a heartbeat, a culture speaking without sound.

I am fascinated not by the exotic alone, but by the living pulse of life everywhere. In Japan, the careful balance of history and neon. In Seoul, the energy that hums beneath every crowded street. In Manila, the warmth and chaos intertwined, unashamed and alive. These are not places I have touched, yet I feel them as vividly as I feel the echo of my own heartbeat.

I do not want to consume. I want to witness. I want to understand. I want to walk with reverence, to listen with attention, to respect the lives unfolding around me, and to see what is beautiful without taking it for my own. Language, culture, custom—these are windows into the souls of people, and I am endlessly curious.

Even in dreams, I travel, carrying notebooks, pens, a hunger for connection. I meet people, learn their words, share their moments, and leave a piece of myself behind in the care with which I have observed.

This is how I show love to the world I do not yet fully know. Through attention, through curiosity, through presence. And perhaps, one day, when my feet touch those streets, I will not only observe, but belong in some way, however fleeting.

Until then, I will listen. I will watch. I will learn.

Drifting Without Roots: A Poem on Cultural Identity and Longing
A confessional poem exploring envy of cultural heritage, the ache of disconnection, and the search for belonging in a fractured identity.