Why Am I

Why am I looking forward to the day that I will move from one house completely on my own? The idea of packing away my things and then loading them into my car and then opening the door of my new place and then unloading the car and then unpacking the boxes and then arranging the house.

I am excited about the day that I will sit on my clustered living room, having supper with myself, tired, grimy, and planning how the next day would go.

Yet, I have some experiences with moving...two times my whole family moved from one place to another, and then now, I am living in a place all too far from them. All three I had [still having] problems coping up. I always feel homesick or something like that. I sometimes remember the smell of our old house and would feel very very nostalgic and would wish that we are still living there.

So, it is really really odd for me to feel this way. I do. So I am odd. and outta myself. Ü

I remember.

I remember afternoons in our first house, filled with childish play and dodging the “authorities” who were telling me to go to sleep instead. I remember the scent of the living room, the coolness of the terrace around midday where one could just relax without a care in the world.

I remember the first move. The new house, unfinished yet brimming with promises. I remember the various changes that were made to maximize the space. I remember the new kitchen being constructed. The continuous pounding in the roof and floor making my head ache. I remember the dreams being dreamt and fulfilled within its extended walls. I was happy. I was sad. I missed the old ways. The family prayers that were said in the newly-tiled sala bonding us the way sunday-night-outs never could.

I remember the packing. It was such a cruel world, I thought then. I remember the trucks taking all of our things away. I remember walking slowly, knowing that it would be the last time.

I remember the new house. I remember the first storm. The second floor was flooded, the first, quite dry. I remember sleeping in the only bedroom in the third floor. Mornings were cold, nights were full of bugs attracted to the light. I enjoyed the solitude. I remember being up there, in the “tower”, reading to my heart’s content. The calls of “Dinner!” went unheard until someone goes up the stairs. I loved my new home. I am longing to go back to the one I left.

I remember my ultimate move. To a dorm, 4 or so hours away. I remember choosing which clothes to bring or to leave behind. There were so many bags, so many things to carry, yet I know I am leaving a half of myself. I remember being the last one to turn to bed that night. Casting the house a look and trying to take it all in, wanting to cast the image of a friendly place in my mind.

I remember the adjustment. I remember the tears, can still taste them. I remember being okay. I remember being not.

I remember so many things. So many houses have withered, so many homes were left. The only piece of feeling connects all these. DISLOCATION, heightened by this post, by the way I am remembering the old places now.

I must get away from the memories. This is not the time for them.