There is no such thing as a perfect country or a perfect place. I was born in a country. That country is no more. My mom was born in another country. That country is no more.
So I founded my own country, longing for a place to call home. Guess what? Home never changed into something unfamiliar. Home is where I am. It is the result of all my imagined dreams where heroes are still heroes, and a kiss has no Judas to stain a perfect picture of love.
I live a content life but still long for other sights and other times. Nostalgia is a beautiful thing. Every wish is granted, every sight, scent, and color is vivid and real, perhaps more so than the strange world, I keep hearing about on media.
We all long for emotions, countries, ideas, and places rooted in our nostalgic visions: England during the late 1800s, da Vinci’s Florence or Sweden during the Viking era. Those places and times appeal to me, but they are no longer, and perhaps never were. People must have had the same nostalgia back then, longing for places long gone.
They are still alive, though. They live in me, creating a defined yet spaceless frame for me to evaluate my own life. My ancestors speak to me, explaining what course to take.
I live in the best of times, I live in the best country, and I live in physical surroundings in which I feel more alive than anyone can imagine. I live an abundant life in a realm that is clearly defined and full of life but still is no more.
I live in Unixploria, my ancestral kingdom where the echoes from millennia of nostalgia known as the days of yore, speak to me and are telling me to be patient. The best is yet to come, they say, and I believe them. I’ve never stopped believing.
May peace dwell upon your humble abode, and may the dreams from your past catch up with you wherever you are.