The scratches and stretches done to my brain in this land of liberty, the magnitude of my stress tell the story of my short life, it reflects the damage that has been done by the processes throughout my cultural history. The smoke that passes and filters through my 18 year old lens. I only see the blues and the destruction to my culture while I try to live a life of giving and yet cherish only those who believe in the struggle. I see a light through a mist that shines so bright that it blinds the mind to the since made of the past, and the illusion of the future.