I am from painting filled hallways,

reflections of Southeast Asian culture through roughly textured brush strokes.

I am from the dewy lotus that encapsulates sultry aromas,

the rain-filled summers that nurtures our sore throats.

I am from the vintage movie marathons

and the inky black hair

from ancestors long deceased.

I am from the passionate musicians

that play with weakly thumping hearts,

singing quietly with a wheeze.

From good morning 

to good night.

From lustrous silks

to worn straw hats.

I am from the terraced hills of another world,

one 8,568 miles away.