Writing pieces from Rhys

So one of the stories that I wrote was about me and how I'm a third culture kid. For context, I was born in America, grew up in Saudi (I still live in Saudi btw), but ethnically I'm from India. The goal of my writing was to try and capture the essence of what its like to "between universes". I hope anyone who is reading can enjoy: 

Unspoken words by Rhys

The sounds of the call to prayer echoed in my ears through the streets of Dhahran. The city felt warm, like the beach on a sunny day. It was bustling with people running about their day, and about everyone was friendly. Despite the fact I liked the city, I never felt at home. I could hear my classmates laughing in swirls of a language, Arabic, that I couldn't really understand or speak. I stood, alone on most days -- caught between two universes, the neighborhood I grew up in Dhahran, and the culture that I came from, India. "Where are you really from?" someone asked me once, their voice quiet, but heavy. I stood, my mouth opening and closing, unsure of the answer. When people asked me that, some part of me wished I could say that I was from Saudi, although that wasn't true, but I didn't feel any less Indian--or American either. 

    When I was 12, I went to India for the summer. The air was hot, my skin sweltering against the heat, as I stood on the train platform to go home. When I arrived at my grandparents house, my aunts and uncles stood in the large room that always smelled faintly of vanilla. "Why is your voice so American? You don't look anything like an Indian with how white your skin is" They'd laughed. My chest throbbed against the weight of their words. They said it so lightly, but they didn't realize how true it was or how deeply it hurt me. That was true, I had an American accent since I was born there, even though I was Indian, and lived in Saudi. 

    The next summer, I went to the US. My cousins were smart, brilliant, smarter than me at least. They were good at cooking, they knew all the good places in the city. My brain just kept wandering. That day, we went to the beach. 

  "Where am I really from?" I asked my cousin sister, looking up at her, my eyes wide. She chuckled, whilst staring at the ocean and looked down at me. 

  "Where do you think home is?" she asked me. I looked at her, my sweet cousin, and my mind...blanked. 

  "I..uhhh-" My cousin looked at me then, and smiled. 

  "You are from wherever you think you are. You're unique. You can choose your home, Sarah. Most people don't get to do that" 

  I thought about it then. She was right, wasn't she? I could choose my home. I stared into the vast ocean, my heart thumping with the rhythm of the ocean. My pulse accelerating. I looked up at my cousin then, and I felt something settle in my chest. My heart warmed by the sunset, settling in. Maybe home was my family. Maybe I was already home. 

 This is my second piece. Its an emotional narrative I suppose: 

Dear Allah, 

  I've been through a lot. Growing up as the only imaginative one in a family of Indian conservatives has been beyond tough. Their were many times where I cried, feeling like an outcast in my own family. Genuinely, for many years, I believed that I was alone. A lonely creative inspired by manys words, but unable to put it to use. Every piece of writing before Write the World has felt meaningless because their was no purpose to it. Everyone thinks I'm crazy because I imagine these characters in my head, I give them plots, a storyline, emotions, and arcs. I imagine things that everyone thinks is crazy, and for many years, I believed that I was a crazy person for being as imaginative as everyone assumed I was. 
  One time a family member of mine told me that everyone was gonna think that I'm weird and that no one would ever want to be with me--that my "future husband" would think that I'm crazy. Those words, they hit deeper than I'd like to admit. That day, I felt something pierce my soul. I was no longer going to believe this because I believed that I couldn't possibly be the only person in the whole world who does this. 
  Allah, you created me and gave me this imagination so their has to be some good purpose for it. I believe in that strongly. Before this platform, all the stories that bounced in my head, all the emotions that made me feel alive, they were there for a reason. I just didn't know how to use them before. Now I feel less alone because I have people that are like me. People that are creative, who have thoughts that run through their head, and that have an imagination that runs so deep that they can create intricate stories with layered plots and characters and put their life experiences in them. That's what the beauty of it is though. At home, everyone thinks I'm weird but here, I'm just like any other person. I belong. In my life, I've never felt like I got to belong because all I was told was how my mind wasn't normal but now I'm surrounded by individuals whose imaginations are just as rich as mine are. 
  I thank you, Allah. For giving me the blessing of that. For giving me an outlet in which I can express my doubts, frustration, anger, and whatever I want into it. Without judgement. 

Your devoted servant,