I draw from the well
whose diminishing returns
soon has me thirsting
before it`s dry
And so it seems I`ll live my life:
a finger-food diet
grows hollow bones
with which to fly
-
Visiting memories is like hunting ghosts. You can feel them there, but always just out of reach. I don`t feel this hollowness when visiting people because most are running along side of me at a relatively equal pace. It`s the places, these intricate settings for my personal drama, that bring a strange empty feeling - like I`ve gotten on the wrong bus and ended up too Far East.
Its the external memories of a place that are most haunting. I never took the energy to infuse my brain with full accounts of the moments of life, but the places - like some subtle archive - have scripted small and detailed memories into their very molecules. Stone walls are inscribed with feelings of release, bamboo is etched with gallant independence and university chalkboards are streaked with purpose and fullfilment ~ memories that reinvigorate my direction and purpose.
A revisit is like a diagnostic meter. How is the engine running? How many miles have you registered? How often have you hesitated, which grinds your faith away like break pads? I`m here for a tune up. I remember where I was, I more clearly see where I am and things lost in the doldrums have resurfaced as distant flags just within sight. I feel reinvigorated, juxtaposed with the past, to continue climbing and descending the dune landscape of the future.
I struggled at first with not being the same as I was during my first visit to Japan. I still burn but without the molten heat of early twenties optimism and recklessness.
After three months I`ve found my adaptation uplifting and a signal that I`m on a road; whether it`s the right road or not, I`m going somewhere. I think somewhere is better than nowhere, which is where I may have been heading if I never left home. I disagree with the statement, `whatever doesn`t kill you only makes you stronger` in favor for `whatever doesn`t kill you can either makes you stronger or weaker depending on how you deal with it.` (I know it doesn`t have the same ring, but poetry, too, must bow before prudence.)
Echoes of the past still hum between the tatami fibres and thin Japanese walls. I feel gifted with an external memory as vast as the world, with each alley I`ve taken, each mountain I`ve climbed and every sacred place retelling me my own story. The seasons cast their familiar frame upon the chaos with which I have grown so comfortable. And here we go.
--
Home is where I want to be
so I have to go where I want.
