People are different here.
They don’t send money back home to their parents.
Instead, their parents buy them cars or houses.
They don’t hang on to life and sanity with the last claws of their humanity, will power, focus.
Many walk placidly.
There is indifference and distance.
They are reasonably comfortable.
Perhaps explore social and relational structures outside the matrix of ensuring survival and reproduction. It is largely ensured, or optional, respectively.
It’s far too hot to think, walking the streets of this city in July.
I feel echoes.
Echoes of me growing up warm-blooded, perhaps hot-headed, here. with this glass wall incomprehensible; after having learnt the language, it remains incomprehensible on an affective level, a block of ice or concrete that will not melt or crumble or be bridged, like a grain of sand in my eyes,
your normality was never my normality,
i didn’t understand the difference, i understood you as little as you understood me, but i was in the weaker position and not understanding meant missing the train.
now my understanding has grown
getting that slab of concrete and that crumbled ice out of my body
getting that glass out of my eyes and forehead
twists my tongue
confounds my body
with something that cannot be assimilated into self
what would it require to speak across this … wall
to touch pathways so familiar yet so banned from the self
you live in me,
yet in a tightly sealed capsule ensuring that your way of thinking doesn’t infect defeat alienate me from my fragile sense of self
*If this text is incomprehensible: it’s about the emotional aspect of a multiple migration experience, written at a moment of entering once again the country in which I spent most of my youth as an immigrant (and then left). Refers to events that happened almost thirty years ago.