Proud of my roots?

To be proud of roots?

I mean what the heck? The only thing I get from it is, that I can get what I will get sick on or amazed by, or look like… and why I feel how I feel…

… but proud?

Roots are strong or week, mine are week.

In half unknown, mystical. And yes, I know we do not choose our roots, so no shame, though if no shame so why proud? And… what if we can choose our roots? Maybe there is some kind of test in this another dimension, world of: do you wanna live there one more time, or maybe for the first time?



I think lack of strong family vibes made of me that heavy butterfly – sorry, I am short, but not skinny – which was mostly looking for its part of the world. This almost perfection. Tried this, that, then… an island…

For more, for some truth…

… looking, maybe my unknown roots somehow were combined, are combined, with now, but… how can I know. My dreams, my visions, my everything… yeah, got to come back to painting, I need to spell some magic into canvases… There is too much in me. My head is bubbling right now…

I mean really…

But proud?

I can be proud of myself, but I am unable of this… thing.

Soooo… are you proud of your grandparents or other grand grand… I mean they were normal people like you. You are a part of them. So this what you call special in them may be still hidden… in you.


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