Nonexistent Lines

“We operate under the illusion that we are separate – individuals proudly defined by flesh and values and our differences from one another. And I think that’s how we got to this point.” Her words – her reaction to the collection of words I had shared with her the day before – suddenly injected new meaning into my own. What I had initially written as a direct expression of my physical surroundings at the time became, through her reframing, a larger commentary on the underlying essence of something at play in the turbulent social context in which we now find ourselves. It also reminded me of the beauty of art as something inherently relational, something that acquires endless variations of meaning in its capacity to be shared. Through this act of sharing, the creator in a way relinquishes ownership over the art and the meaning attached to it, whether or not intended, and therein creates the space for new dialogues to emerge not only between artist and audience but between artist and his or her own art.

I don’t write poetry. I am not a poet by any measure. But there are some experiences that feel only appropriate to express in an abstracted form. And as poets like Rilke have counseled to aspiring young writers, poetry should in fact be reserved for those things that you need to say, that you feel you would die if you were forbidden to say. If something “spread its roots into the very depth of your heart” and “commands you to write,” then you should write it. That is probably the best way to describe the sensation I felt when I had the privilege a few weeks ago to be standing in the most hauntingly beautiful landscape in Ireland. There was a point where I literally felt as though my own being was indistinguishable from my surroundings – a sense that I was seeing the reflection of my own soul in the things around me. The earth felt like a living being in every respect, one with a message that drew you in and made you listen with all of your faculties. It was a message I felt compelled to try to capture however feeble my attempt…

When I exhaled I felt the strong breeze let out its own breath
Melding with mine and carrying it across the soft copper horizon
Slanting the blades of green yellow purple red gold into a gentle curve
A suggestion of a question mark in their ever present slant.
The mist covers the horizon
Pleading with you to stop searching for edges and endings
Rendering everything into one endless expanse
Grass and boulders, heather and wildflowers, fern and moss, mountain and sky.
The sharpness of the individual parts fade into one soft blur of copper and grey strokes
Extending beyond the exterior
Denying you even those fleshy boundaries you take to be concrete
Blurring the lines between skin and air, the inhales of the earth from the exhale of your lungs.
The lines of the hills, the curve of the grass, the roughness of the stones
They define the contours of your soul.
The gurgling undercurrent of the streams that run beneath the ground
Invisible beneath the thick yellow cover but constantly carrying forth secrets
Working in unison with the wind
Leaving its trace in the tilt of the trees and the slant of the hills, the endless bow of the grass.
Concealing a desperate yearning to be heard
But reserving its utterance only for those who seek it
Letting out only whispers
Except
For those dark tangled roots that emerge between the soft brush
Unable to contain their desire to be seen
Jutting out sharpness, demanding your attention
Adding depth and contrast to the expanse of soft copper
But at their tips, nothing more
than pale pink buds.
The land is content in its solitude
But reverberates with a silent outcry all the same
The restless winds that call out for more,
The rough silence soothed by the echoing of birds’ songs
of origins untraceable
And by a conviction
In its own expansiveness
Not allowing high peaks or horizon lines to feign separation
That does not exist.

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While my poem (if it can be considered that) was more reactionary than intentional in its message, it is interesting to place it in the context of the confusion of emotion resonating throughout the world at the moment, as my friend had done in her interpretation after the elections. As I look at my own words now again with new eyes, I want to draw from them the essence of what I felt not only in the raw material of the physical earth but in the social material that surrounds me now: evidence of our interconnectedness with each other and the earth at the deepest of levels.

And, just as I felt in the Irish landscape, the interconnectedness I see evidenced by the cries of the global community now is not one of an abstract idealism but one of a concrete reality. It is a thing at once so brazenly visible and yet at the same time, persistently suppressed into a false obscurity. Paradoxically, many even use the evidence of its existence as proof of the contrary. For this interconnectedness is perhaps most visible in the pain itself — even in the seemingly conflicting forms of pain that manifest in clashes between those who perceive themselves as existing on opposite sides of socially constructed divides. Underneath it all, the responses by all sides speak to the reality of our oneness as human creatures with the same fears and concerns, irrationalities and inner contradictions. It is a truth that, when ignored, allows for ‘othering’ based upon these self-created distinctions. It allows us to forget the humanity in those we feel most different from.

The visceral quality of the collective emotional response – the fear, the pain, the hopelessness, the desperation, the anger, and for some, the elation or new hope – emotions not just felt within the U.S. but in every corner of the globe, particularly underscores the recognition of the deep and complex ties that define our current world order. They reveal a comprehension of the stakes at hand for everyone, whether positive or harmful; of the way the outcome of one country’s election implicates each individual in one way or another, whose ripple effect goes far beyond the sphere of politics and national borders.

The reality of this fact is both beautiful and terrifying: terrifying in the implications of just how much our own actions affect the lives of everyone else on this planet, but beautiful in the implication of how much our actions have the power to affect the lives of everyone else on this planet.

In drawing light to this positive aspect, even opportunity, granted by the current moment, I do not want to minimize the validity of the pain and fear felt by anyone. At the same time, I do want to shift the focus of the conversation. I want people to engage with their pain and fear in recognizing the roots of the same emotions felt by the ‘other side’. I do not want people to condone behavior or views that are objectively racist, bigoted, or full of hate, but I do want them to recognize the beauty and hideousness we are all capable of and the very different contexts and realities that shape the lens through which each person comes to see the world. I do not want people to resign themselves to tolerance for the sake of some kind of utilitarian existence amidst insurmountable differences, but to strive for empathy and its inevitable aftermath – love.

Ultimately, I hope that amidst the hatefulness and destructive divisiveness, people come to recognize the reality of the interconnectedness behind it, and to translate this comprehension into something fruitful. While the conversations all come back to the politics or words and actions of one political candidate, it is equally evident that so much of the fear and pain surrounding it is not merely linked to this one public figure but of what the support for him implies of the values of the society more broadly; of the potential normalizing effect his position might have on racist or violent attitudes. This is also in a way empowering because it points to the fact that our fears are directed at things in our power to change, regardless of who is in power. And, whilst obvious in one sense, I also think it is critical to remind ourselves that such feelings don’t emerge overnight. Sometimes, certain events help symptoms of much larger issues rise to the surface and force everyone to confront them head on. Much of the shock surrounding the prevalence of these attitudes as embodied by the election result may also be said to speak to the suppression of critical voices among us – the voices of those who were not at all surprised by the results, of those who have long been the targets of these aggressions, of the voices listened to but never really fully heard.

Hopefully now we will actually start to hear each other. And hopefully our politically-charged dialogues can give way to greater recognition of the reason we care about politics at all: to collectively create a community that we all want to live in. No doubt, the actions of one person in power can have very real and direct effects on the society at large; policies can change and the institutions they shape can render the achievement of equality that much more challenging. But in the end, the underlying cries for change and reform are at their core cries for reforms of the heart, for empathy and understanding. And I wish there was a way to express this that didn’t come across so idealistic and light-hearted, because I think it is something that we all too often cast aside as less weighty than real ‘political’ issues and that so many still struggle to envisage in the same concrete, practical terms, and so I am saying it anyways, as deceptively simplistic and reductive as it may sound. Because really, how can we possibly hope for a better future, for any different outcome than what we are seeing now, if we aren’t engaging with the emotions and spirits of the individual humans that shape the institutions that represent them? And how can we claim to embrace diversity as a progressive society if we don’t humble ourselves to the fact that maybe the so-called diversity we claim to embrace is still primarily confined to those who hold the same values and world-views as ourselves?

I myself am still grappling with the dimensions of my own initial reaction of shock, of what it implies of my own ignorance and of the voices I am yet to fully hear out. All I know is that the strong ties that hold us all together, while painful at times, are more visible now than ever.

“Let this American democracy become glorious in spiritual degrees even as it has aspired to material degrees, and render this just government victorious.  Confirm this revered nation to upraise the standard of the oneness of humanity, to promulgate the Most Great Peace, to become thereby most glorious and praiseworthy among all the nations of the world.” – prayer excerpt from the Bahá’í writings

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Scratched and Faded Letters

I’ve lived in Johannesburg for nearly two years. I tell people I can’t believe it, that it doesn’t feel like two years has passed, that I don’t know where the time has gone, but the words fall short of the depth of bewilderment which underlies them. I have significant memories from these past two years, no doubt, and I know that things have happened, time has passed, things have changed, the world has been moving, but at the same time, I struggle to fully grasp and feel the weight of what it would seem two-years worth of memories should contain. In my mind, they feel light and fleeting…as if the time barely existed…as if I just stepped foot off the plane into my new country, my new job, my new life. Somehow that is the memory that bears the greater weight, the deeper sense of reality, than the compilation of two years as a post-graduate adult living life thousands of miles away from what once was home.

This sentiment has felt all the more troubling when juxtaposed with the physical signs of the passage of time, the signs that force the resistant mind to admit to the reality of the fact that time keeps moving. And strangely enough, the one that has incited the strongest emotion has been my travel coffee mug: the thin, translucent tumbler with the Northwestern emblem detailed in purple on one side. The tumbler which, when first receiving it, I so distinctly remember thinking “good thing I came to this one,” after realizing I’d get to keep it as a free gift from one of the many graduation ceremonies I went along to mostly for my parents’ sake in my last days of undergrad. The tumbler which sparks memories of the long, decisive and deliberate packing process I embarked on days before my journey overseas – determining it would make the cut as one of the necessary items to receive a spot in my precious luggage space. The tumbler I remember carrying in my brown leather adult-like work bag, filled with sub-par instant coffee, as I walked into my new office filled with uncertainty and expectation my first day of work, and proceeded to carry with me every single morning since that day. Since then, it has become an invisible staple of my surroundings – an item rendered insignificant by its practical utility and regular presence and use in my daily life.

But recently, something about it caught my eye – something which I found more disturbing than I perhaps wanted to admit: I saw that the royal purple enamel which once formed the perfect block lettering spelling out the name of my alma mater now revealed scratched out remnants of letters – the S and H only half remaining, the Y completely etched away; and the ornate and detailed emblem above NORTHWESTERN now reduced to a barely visible outline of circles, its edges traced by indiscernible symbols and letters – a shadow of what it once was.

As strange as I know it sounds to be rendered dumbfounded by the scratched out lettering of a coffee mug, it was in that instant that a realization of something I was already well aware of in some unconscious part of my mind finally forced its way to the surface and refused to be ignored: that this was undeniable, physical, tangible, concrete evidence that time that had passed.

On the one hand, each time I reflected on my own life with the introspective eye of expectation for what the passage of time and growing up is supposed to look like in an individual, I felt unsatisfied with the inability to see and feel what I knew to be true: that I’ve changed, that I have lived, that things are different now. Looking at myself, I still felt exactly as I did two years ago – not in a negative way exactly, or in a way that implies we all must change drastically with the passing of each year or that any certain milestones must happen, but just simply that it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel right because we essentially are our experiences. None of us are constant beings – from our physical cells to our brain activity to our ever-evolving souls. And with these experiences that become us, with this constant motion all around us and within us, it follows that something should be evident…felt…noticed.

But this didn’t seem the case when I looked at myself or filtered through my thoughts or sorted through my memories. Only in looking at the scratched out purple letters of my mug…or of the gigantic Builders’ Warehouse that stands erect across from the apartment where I used to live – in a spot where once only dirt and bricks stood…or of the mall which has doubled in size, with shiny new stores and large glass windows down my street where once there was only empty space…or of the friends to whom I once ventured in taxis across town to see every other weekend who are now scattered in all corners of the world…or the fellows with whom I had shared the continent a year ago who have now started degrees, found new jobs, established new lives on other continents…or of the high school friends I have long ago lost touch with who I see getting married or having children as I unwittingly yet instinctually click through their wedding or baby photos on Facebook…or of the dear souls I had the bounty of meeting in South Africa and briefly crossing paths with on this earth who are now no longer on this physical plane…

Only then, for a brief instant, do I feel the true weight of time.

But while these concrete signs of time’s passage each capture my attention and open my eyes a bit wider to their deeper implications, they’ve also made me that much more anxious to reconcile the physical and concrete signs with those less tangible. I wonder as well whether time without the physical markers of its passing, or time without the arbitrary numbers we assign to it in an attempt to make it more concrete and feel as though we wield some control over it, would hold the same weight in our minds. If I could not define it as two years of time that has gone by, or define myself as 24 – a constant reminder of my own time on this earth that comes with its own implications – then would I still expect something from it? Would I let time exercise its control over me the way I know I do now?

Maybe it is the misleading impression that time brings with it forward motion which creates these feelings of disconnect and disjointedness. Forward motion implies motion towards something – a direction of some sort that we have envisioned for ourselves or for the things around us. But time does not inevitably bring us towards anything. In fact, it could even take us backwards (or what we would perceive as backwards in relation to whatever it is we subconsciously – or consciously – thought we were moving towards).

I would try to put this in more concrete terms, but in my own case, I am still trying to figure out what exactly it is I had expected to be moving towards that has left me feeling as though time has deceived me…enlightenment? wisdom? understanding? or something more tangible? something to show for when thinking back at how I’ve spent most of my hours these past two years – impact on other people’s lives? new skills and talents from my work experiences? more confidence, more self-assurance in my abilities? or something more abstract? some new experience of love? the capacity to distinguish reason from emotion?

I don’t know. But I can’t help but look back with a longing for more evidence of time’s marker in myself as much as I see it in the physical changes around me. But in saying this, I also recognize the passivity latent in such a desire….one implying again that time itself provides the force for motion in a direction…if there should even be a direction to begin with. But if there should be, then one of the characteristics of time that I find most frightening is that if we choose to not act towards something or initiate changes or make things happen, our lack of ‘motion’ does not reflect stagnation in the wake of potential progress, but in fact represents regression – because time never stops moving. And if we exist in the context of this ever-moving force that is time, then the act of not moving in some ways becomes backwards motion.

I think I find this frightening because, as is well known, when we grow older, time seems faster as each year becomes a smaller fragment relative to the amount of time we’ve spent living. And with each passing year, I feel myself scrambling to hold onto each piece that meant something to me, to internalize and make something of what has passed and ensure that it does not become lost in the accumulation of too many layers of memory and self. I can’t even fully say why this feels so necessary, but perhaps it is to feel that my time has been well-spent and that I am capable of some kind of forward motion — that I have not wasted the opportunities presented to me by the people and experiences that have come into my life, nor failed to enact some kind of positive change, some sort of progress in the world – no matter how small or insignificant…

Home

I’ve recently returned from visiting ‘home’ (the United States) for the first time in a year and a half – the longest I’ve ever continuously been out of the country. Having prepped myself for not only reverse culture shock, but also for potential feelings of estrangement and distance from old people and places, simply for having not been in contact with them for such a relatively long period of time, I ended up instead finding myself more shocked by the lack of shock. Being back in the states, it felt strangely as if the life I had built in South Africa over the last year and a half suddenly belonged to a distant, abstract memory; another life in fact. For whatever reason, my mind simply couldn’t reconcile the life abroad with the life I left behind – not in any positive or negative way, but simply such that returning to the U.S. felt literally as though I never left. Just as coming back to South Africa after a month away felt as though I never left. Each time, the perception of the latter place quickly fading into that strange distant memory, reflective of a life somehow disconnected from my present.

I’m not sure if this is the experience of most, or if I’ve even managed to articulate it in a way that makes any sense to other humans, but I feel like many people return to a home place unconsciously expecting things to be just as they left it, only to find that life continued on after they left – and that the friends and places of their past were not the stagnant images their minds had expected. Yet somehow, for me, things did feel the same. Obviously people had grown, lives had evolved, and places had changed as is inevitable with time, but the feeling of never having left still pervaded all of my interactions.

Amidst this unexpected, and no doubt deceptive, feeling of sameness, I felt more hyperaware of and attuned to the nature and effect of my interactions with these places and people both in the present and the past. By this, I mean that faced with such unexpected sameness, and simultaneously recognizing the absurdity and falseness of this perceived sameness, I began to wonder whether it had more to do with my lack of astuteness to the obvious changes outside of – as well as within – me that had inevitably occurred over a year and a half. It quickly evolved into a desire to not only consider what changes I failed to immediately grasp in my return ‘home’ but also to re-examine what changes I had failed to notice over my entire childhood/young adulthood throughout my interactions with these various home-places I was now revisiting.

To give an example, one thing that struck me when first seeing my dad after almost two years, and my sister after something like three years, was that: they’re black. I realize this makes me sound like an idiot. And I don’t mean that I didn’t realize this before. But what struck me was how I never remember really pondering on this very evident, and pretty significant fact when I lived with them up until high school….as in, how did I never have great cause to wonder whether they’d ever faced discrimination in life due to this fact? or how did I not notice what society perceived of our mixed family and the various interactions that would have resulted? And also, how did I never feel pulled towards defining my own race any earlier than college (when I was forced to concretely check a box that would define it)? Obviously, it is an extreme privilege that such questions didn’t come up…and I’m sure a lot of the world would love to frame this example of someone not noticing such things within their own life as evidence of progress in the world or how it is possible to be “color-blind”, but the reality is that the world is still far from achieving such a stage, and “color-blindness” in the sense in which it is typically used is generally an excuse by those in already privileged positions to deny the privileged basis upon which they are able to function in the world. Being color “blind” in today’s world essentially means choosing to be blind to (as well as perpetuating) all the inequalities and discrimination that continues to shape how much of the world lives.

Returning home after a year living in South Africa – a place where the memory of institutionalized racism is so recent that it is impossible to deny its links to the present systems; while viewing life overseas in my own home country through the lens of an outsider – seeing all of the news of Ferguson and riots and race dialogues emerging through clips and articles; it was impossible not to compare the two and arrive at the troubling yet evident and telling realization that America is no better….only more in denial. One of my favorite parts about Joburg specifically has been this overall sense of realness in what it has to offer as a city – a complex place with incredible people, culture, and diversity, but a place which also doesn’t try to hide (or perhaps, is incapable of hiding) its issues: the inequality, the violent crime, the way in which a long history of racism does not disappear overnight and is still present in the structures and systems around us. America, on the other hand, seems like a place intent on masking all of its parallel issues under the guise of progress and politically correct language and emphasis on the policies intended to correct the injustices – all the while failing to fully grasp and give light to the reality of things beneath this veneer. In any case…this combination of realities and realizations remained in the back of my mind as I re-engaged with the people and places of my past…leading to the many questions I was surprised to not have been forced to deeply grapple with previously.

Above all else, this re-visiting of home-places also became a reminder of the centrality of people in defining home, and even more, defining self. Re-connecting with family members and friendships I had only minimally engaged with over the past year and a half felt a lot like reconnecting with fragments of myself I forgot that I had. In my last blog post, I talked about the uncertainty I felt surrounding the role that relationships do or should play in our lives, and while I still don’t know about the ‘should’, this return home allowed me to see just how much relationships ‘do’ define me. I’m not sure if this is good or bad, but reuniting with the various people from various parts of my life and with varying depths of involvement in my life left me with the sense that the person that I am at any moment is largely an amalgamation of each person that I’ve crossed paths with in life – or, better said, an amalgamation of my interactions with each person – extending beyond the people still in my life, or even the people I can recall being in my life, to even those fleeting interactions with individuals now forgotten.

And, as I’m sure is the case for many, it’s usually the negative or most traumatic remnants of relationships that end up leaving the greatest impact or wielding the most influential power to shape us. There’s something about returning to the physical settings and people that intersect with an old relationship assumed to be forgotten and left behind that seems to reveal the deceitful power of our own minds — pulling out fragments of memory and understandings of not only the relationship, but also ourselves, that we’ve subconsciously buried away. At least in my case, simply having contact once again with the people and places still connected to a broken friendship forced me to realize just how much fear I still held in actually coming face to face again with the memories I had essentially suppressed — not so much of the friendship itself or events even, but really, of myself: of the person I perceived myself to be through the friendship, of what the friend had perceived of me, of what the broken friendship would mean for the mutual friends that had remained at the periphery, or in this very specific case – being reminded of the state of being and thoughts my mind was capable of during depression….and grappling with the thought of who I was in that state, and whether I could claim to be a wholly different person now having moved on from that period or state of being; whether I could claim to be fully immune to such thought processes now or the potential of even falling back into such a state.

It made me realize that, being in another country, and as it felt, another world, from the events of my past — of the broken friendship and the symbolic reminder it continued to hold for my period of depression as a whole — it enabled me to achieve the distancing from memories necessary for what felt like moving on, but this was still to some extent superficial; as distant as they felt, the memories still haunted me. The hesitance to even confront them again was evidence of this. And, only in returning home, did I also realize this fear stemmed largely from wanting to claim complete forgiveness of the past and happiness in the present – to prove to myself that I had grown from the experience and that was the end of it; and that to admit otherwise was essentially weakness. And, if I’m being completely honest, it was not only about proving to myself, but in doing so, somehow proving to the friend that was never able to separate her image of me from my depression – from all the irrationalities that defined my actions during that period but which now seem to have belonged to another person entirely – that I really never was and am not that person. I had assumed that only in ‘moving on’ in this sense of proving this to myself and to the abstract idea of ‘her’ (regardless of whether or not the actual ‘her’ ever came to know or care that I had moved on), that only then would things make sense and I would come to find myself stronger and better off as a result.

But if nothing else, coming in closer contact to these thoughts again allowed me to finally admit to myself that I’m still not over it. And as paradoxical as it may seem, allowing myself to not be over something has felt like a much stronger path to peace of mind and greater understanding than to claim otherwise. And I may never be completely ‘over it’: I am not over it because experiencing a friendship break-up shattered the idealistic and essentially unrealistic worldview I had held up until that point of how friendships worked. Of how people worked. Of how I worked. I am not over it because in each relationship I now have – from the oldest friends to the new close bonds I’ve formed – I can’t help but wonder now whether any of us really know each other. ….I know it sounds melodramatic worded in this way, and perhaps it is, but truly, how can any of us really know each other? Often, we hardly understand what’s in our own minds, and often we try to convey who we are to others using the tools of communication we have in our midst: words, gestures, actions….but in the end, how can we know how these things were truly intended to be conveyed by the other person…especially when the things we convey in words may not even be accurate portrayals of what we truly feel or think to begin with? And how much of our perceived connection and mutual understandings of each other is truly understanding versus projections of our mutual desires to be understood; a reflection of us each grasping at what we want to be true and willfully ignoring what might otherwise be the reality: that even those closest to us and those that care for us most still don’t really know us.

Again, I don’t know how to word this in a way that isn’t melodramatic, and I’m not saying that because we may never be able to truly ‘understand’ another human, that we are all just alone in this world (although this existential-y view does actually seem like one that has crossed the thoughts of many based on conversations I’ve had, and for some, instilling actual consternation at the thought of just how alone they are because of this fact)…but I just think this realization has left me with less certitude when it comes to the assumptions of constancy we often seem to attach to the people in our lives without even realizing it (again, not necessarily in a negative way, but more so in just recognizing the reality of life and change and people)…and perhaps more frustration at the limitations of words. Even in writing all of this now, I can’t help but think just how feeble the words I’ve just written are at actually conveying the thoughts I really want to say (particularly in considering the abstractness of the mind and what often feels like a billion different ideas floating around and intersecting and overlapping and sometimes never even converging into what can be defined as a concrete ‘thought’…as something tangible enough to be translated into a ‘word’…as something which can actually be interpreted by another person through a limited medium of communication). And I also know that whoever is reading this is interpreting it in a certain way – all based on their own experiences and worldviews and personal lens of understanding, as we all naturally do as unique individuals – inevitably rendering the meaning somehow different or altered from the way in which it was intended.

At the same time, I know that regardless of how capable we are of fully understanding another person, we are fully capable of loving another person – and acting in a manner reflective of that; and I think that in itself is the basis on which friendships should be and are grounded in legitimate substance and worth. It is the basis on which people at the very least make the attempt to know and understand other people – which almost renders the end outcome irrelevant in my mind: if someone makes an effort to understand you, purely out of love and respect for who you are as another person (something which is in their power to do), then why should it matter if they actually achieve a point of fully understanding you (something that is ultimately beyond any of our powers). This conclusion became another overarching realization of my visit home. At first, in realizing how even some of my closest friends seemed to have no comprehension of the way the broken relationship with a mutual friend had affected me – of the casualness with which they approached the whole situation, in juxtaposition to all the confounding and unresolved emotions that seemed to flood my thoughts at the mere reminder of all that had happened or of what the memory of the person still symbolized in relation to my own self-concept – the existential thought of aloneness did momentarily cross my mind…but only to be quickly replaced by the reminder of how much these same individuals cared for me, and I them, and how, in the end…the rest didn’t really matter.

I’m not sure what it is about this desire to be understood….whether it is a natural need we all have as humans, or something we tend to equate with closeness to other people… but such experiences in revisiting home have rather left me with a desire to not desire it. But now, having just written this novel of rambling thoughts attempting to convey the realizations of my home travels to a general audience of strangers…largely out of a need to make some sense of everything and render it more concrete by sharing it with others – I am struck by the irony of how much this post seems to have risen out of an unrealized ‘desire to be understood’. So I guess I’ll just file this as another inconclusive life topic beyond my reach of comprehension for now.