I used to keep notebooks, journals, lists.
Now, I blog.
I blog to talk about what I don't talk about anywhere else.
Yet, when I sit to write here, on this page, to begin to explore, talk about or allow my thoughts to freely surface to a conscious level, I stop and stumble and get carried to other topics in no time. Curious, isn't it?
I feel that I have knowledge of myself and the faraway place where I reside in my dreams, the state of longing that doesn't appear often in the daytime.
Estranged from a homeland, from a mother tongue, from the patrimony of centuries, for me, the immigrant, the orphan, the out-of-place-you-sound-sofunny-whereareyoufrom, for me. these are the very things that want to surface and be witnessed. Yet, I can't talk about them.
There is a great big weight on my shoulders that i can't put down. I tried. I really did. And by writing a few stories, I thought I had expurgated and dug up the roots of my disquietude.
We all have these things we can't talk about.
We all shut down the very things that distinguish us.