The end is not near the new year.


Back in Malaysia where waking up is the whir of ceiling fans and where bed is a softer, bigger canvas. The new year happened feeling like a long-lost friend both inconspicuous yet alien. I am thoroughly glad to be free of achy-breaky joints from neverending flights and neverending airports although goodbyes aren’t easy.

I miss America. I miss the invisibility, the company, the independence, everything that tried and didn’t try to suppress my bad ends. To push through it all led me to build many things I could call my own and I want to carry that place and those changes, even if tested and made small by all the years and trials that will accompany living.

You can’t get the best of both worlds though, that I do know. Maybe it’s the combination of jet lag, post-graduate blues, culture shock and just plain out adapting to changes. Home has my heart but the older I get, the more I’m less certain of how sold I am by the idea of home as a place. If you really want to dig deeper, wouldn’t you say that home is merely a memory shaped and moulded by our minds? And in turn, what are memories if they are not phases that make up our lives, lacking permanence even if rich in substance?

But for now — endless lineup of affordable food, live shows, people to meet and frolic with, free time to think, and everything that I have lived through before I went away is here. Ready or not I already got on that plane ride to be on the other side so the only thing I can afford to say is “Bailamoz, bitchez!”. And bring it on, on and on, and on.


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