For three years I’ve been away, letting my curiosities and struggles take reign in a country (‘ies) that is not my own.
This land is your land,
This land is my land,
to the New York island…
I’m now traveling Asia because
I am Asian.
Every day is a reminder that here is not mine. It’s merely mine to observe.
I’m caving in, deeper and deeper, to the acknowledgement that it is okay to go back.
Home is still a vague notion – “I just got home.” “I want to go home.” “I’m at home.”
Where is home? What is home? Who is home?
The bathroom floors are dirty because they haven’t been cleaned. It is shared by other guests. My bunkbed is in the same room with five others. Men stink.
it’s time – and it’s okay – to go back.
I’ve met so many lonely ex-patriates, mostly men in Korea and throughout Asia, my continent. They are living “comfortably” in my continent.
it’s time – and it’s okay – to go back to the country where previous generations in my family had settled down but had never quite fully felt American.
When Q told O that the chest hurts at the thought of O, O didn’t understand. O nodded.Why is Q so happy? I’m merely O. Just O, like any other O.
And then, O sailed away, far, far away, to escape the pain that was secretly hurting O so much.
O left much later and finally understood what it meant to feel that very happy pain that Q felt. To love something so much, so much so that in the moment, the chest explodes.
It hurts, the grin hurts, everything hurts because elation is overwhelming.
It was felt outside of where they were standing, far, far away from where they had met. Across an ocean and in another territory, O finally felt that highest joy.