Typhoons... Numbered... Almost like kings succeeding the reign of one another... The one happening now, number 15, has attacked the town of my youth, the town where I spent two exciting years full of exploring and discovering. I was envisioning wind surfing for the weekend. But really. Maybe not the best time to fight with the nature. I will be swallowed by it inevitably. Whether it will be the wind or the water, if only I enter the sea, I will be gone, I feel it. I've been avoiding the water ever since what happened happened. Ever since the thread that was connecting me to the reality of life got cut - brutally and without hope. I'll spend the day tomorrow locked in my room like in a shark-viewing glass boat that takes people underwater at glossy resorts. It will be dark and raining. Who knows what creatures will be cutting the raindrops flying through them - birds shall hide... Glossy resorts, I said? Only it's not a resort here, though it once were, when the whole experience of migration felt new, fresh, and meaningful - exactly in connection to the act of migration. When I remembered the moments - the flight, the moving, the feverish customs, flu-struck body pain... I don't know where I am anymore. And whether where I was is the past or some other time scape? It should not be the past just because I left it behind or that I left from there - to here. It is living its separate life which is parallel to mine. And when I call home, it's the same date and day there (is it?), but why does it feel like I talk to the shadows of the past, not knowing even if they exist anymore in the realm of physical reality? The time is lineal in my culture, but is it really? And is it fair to put behind those people and places that constituted something you did in the past or something you were or something you thought you were? How real are they - those memories? Revisited, reconstructed, reinterpreted, rationalized over and over... It's going to be 10 years soon ever since I touched the ground of this new floating land - the land that used to float in the domains of my desire, but which is floating on its own now - shaken by quakes, soaked by rains, driven mad by unpredictable tides... The waves are not linear anymore either, they are not directed at the shore - to touch the edge of the sandy ground and be gone - they became insane, intermingling with each other, one rushing to the East, another - going around itself in endless rounds, reproducing the forgotten ancient chaos... How long will it take these waves to uproot the reality of mine completely and to make me able to move further - to the lands that are not standing on top of the whales' backs, but have their roots reaching through the crust down to the kingdom of the unbreakable inner core? I feel it coming - the fatal thrust of resurrecting willpower, ready to throw me to where it will thunder - ready to make where I am a part of what I were and to redo my history forever...
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