Before long, I come home. And here is something on my mind:
So much good food to return home to. All the fresh local ingredients. Can’t say it’s enough to change one’s entire life over, but it’s good. Piece of the puzzle, not the picture to be aiming for. I am caught in my own head today. Lots to think about. I think I need to avoid disaster and things potentially ready to implode. Things that are radioactive, unstable. I need solid ground or else lose my heart to my fucked up mind.
Glad I have 日本語 to hide in. Exactly what I came to find and here I am, hiding. Letting these 漢字 and symbols like magic keep me safe. Mixed on my tongue are both the places I’m free and the places I’m stuck.
I have been, over the past year, a fucking mess. I was so bad, so fucked up that it almost marred everything and everyone nearby.
I would have thought it was so awful it spread across all my connections. Maybe I wanted it to. Maybe that’s horrible of me. Maybe I’m just desperate to not be alone. To feel like anything matters. It doesn’t and that’s what I get to face. Reality, cold and disconnected. I need to know how blank it can be before I dive in. So I know where I will end up at the end of everything. So I am no longer afraid of it. Because when push comes to shove, we are alone. Every cell is its own.
Each city is its own unique creature. The details are what catch me off guard. A wall where a river ought to be. A river where I once crossed a bridge. Parks atop skyscrapers. Green parrots in long narrow, rain soaked parks and black birds that look like little crows with long tails, but cry out like busted gears and police sirens on end.
And yet, threads through each of them. I can be in Venice, Italy and Bellingham, Washington and Tokyo, Japan all at the same time. Pieces of the same patterns pulled together in slightly new ways. Like people, like birds, like the ocean, like the stars.
Cities are galaxies unto their own. The fake stars of metal, concrete, glass and paper skylines. How much do they trick the mind?
The more I think of it, the more I see the milky way in Tokyo’s urban arms. The more I see the moon in a neon sign advertising shampoo. The more I see the past reflected in fakery. I cannot see the billions of years I used to see for all this light. Pollution like a white shimmering cloud hangs ever above my head in the thrum and beat of the city of cities.