Just finished breakfast. Listening to a mix tape of Regina Spektor songs my cousin Sandra gave me before I left, and trying to work up a renewed appetite to plow through Partha Chatterjee's "Modernity" essay just in time for class later. The music doesn't help the mood - I should be listening to the new Nelly Furtado singles, or even Pussycat Dolls, just in an effort to lift the mood, but somehow, the piano and her voice rippling through the lyrics is enough.
And it was raining cats and dogs out side of her window
And she knew they were destined to become sacred road kill on the way
And she was listening to the sound of heavens shaking
thinking about puddles, puddles and mistakes
- "Braille", Regina Spektor
And I wish I wasn't like this, thinking too much and feeling too much and wanting so many things that I don't really have control over. I wish I was one of those people who had a singular purpose in life, who focused intently on just one thing and never really could bother with all the trappings of emotions and sadness, and I wish I just had someone to talk to, and the thought of being here for over a year will pretty much just drive me insane with loneliness. I wish I was stronger, I wish all I could write about here are the happy stuff, like brownies and classes and new poetry and meeting new people. And I like meeting new people, but there's also a part of me that's wanting to hit my head repeatedly against the wall, and that is the part of me that I want to get rid of.
It's almost a month since I've gotten here.
I feel like I've been here for a lifetime.
And my writing is suffering. I look at the pages of the story I'm working on, and shit, God knows if I can finish it in time. And I want to finish it, but I'm so tired and so busy with all these readings and preparing for classes, and my fingers are itching to touch the keyboard but when I get there, everything slips elsewhere and refuses to be directed towards writing.
My classmate Marisa and I were talking yesterday, just before class, and she's been here for a semester already, and prior to that, she had taught drama and English at an international secondary school in Sri Lanka for six years. And she says, "Oh yes, even after a semester, I still ask myself, 'What am I doing here?' and I'm just hoping that I don't regret this decision." It seems that we are always questioning our decision to leave, because things at home are always easier, always more familiar, always unshakeable.
I wake up sometimes and think of texting Hiyas and ask if we can meet at Megamall for lunch, and it takes a few seconds to sink in that I am nowhere near Ortigas, and that Hiyas is a thousand million miles away; or I think, "Oh, tonight's the Tori Amos thing at Black Soup, I wonder if I can ask Ginny to pick me up," and realize that Ginny's car cannot fly across oceans and that Cubao is miles and miles away, and no matter how much I wish that things would go back to the way they were, I am not there anymore; I am here, and shit, I have to deal with this or else I'll never be able to make it.
(But secretly - a part of me would want to not make it. Just so I can go back home sooner.)