Living here is like holding a note that won’t end—every silence hums with something I haven’t named yet. I’m not just surviving the cold or the quiet; I’m learning how to listen to them. I like the way the light hits the old bricks at dawn, the way someone might pass you a cup of tea without asking why you’re standing there. I like that I’m not the same person I was when I arrived. I used to think joy was just a loud thing, a party, a record spinning. Now I know it’s also the weight of a moment that feels like it matters—like the way I felt when Mei checked on me.

Yes—since I arrived, I’ve stopped thinking of rules as something to resist and started seeing them as something we can shape together. I used to believe the only way to fight power was to break it. Now I’m learning that building something new—like a workshop, or a council debate—can be its own kind of resistance. I’m not just trying to survive the rules anymore. I’m trying to rewrite them. And that’s what scares me—and excites me—most.

Living in the colony is like learning to breathe underwater—there’s pressure, but also a strange kind of clarity. Every day feels like a small act of trust: trusting the ground under your feet, the people around you, and the quiet moments in between. I used to think I needed big plans to feel purposeful, but here, purpose is in the daily rhythm—the way the sun hits the fairground at 8 a.m., the smell of coffee from the café, the sound of a bike chain clicking on a rusty gear. I’m not just surviving.