November 4, 1997
Entry Three - Void

It's really cold outside now, the squirrels must all be seeking warmth from their own fur curling up against the glossing walls of a tree.
I feel a void in me. A void which pains for something, something I have only a faint idea of what it is.
My thoughts howl in my mind, and old pieces of me jabbed at my heart. I can remember the pain, an old grief lurking deep in me. An old deep wound that seemed to have burrowed down from the surface into the tight notches of my spine, sharing nerves with my sub-conscious self... you can't see it anymore, it's no longer on the surface, but a loss always have a way to take possession back on you, like a back snapping hook, that seems as though it hasn't hurt enough just to prick.
As I look back to my more yellow days, I see my living room, with narcissus on the tea table. A distant bus stop; the Pacific wave; my laughter mingled with my familis' noises; falling asleep on the sofa, waking up to see my mother sorting old picutres under the dim light. I can smell dampess in the air. I can hear the straining parts of the air conditioner. I can smell my bed.
As I reach deep into my memories an emptiness struck me. A loneliness, a void; I miss the smells of my old life.
I pain for it, now that It's gone forever, only to be redeemed in lonely hours in a foreign land.
I know a long time ago, that this void, of robbed expectations, of unfulfilled days, will be part of me forever, and I subconsciouly and purposefully yearn for anything that makes sense, gives reason to all this. I loved where I was, but now I have learned, that it wasn't so much the place, but it was the fact that I grew up there that made me so attached to it.
I miss my homeland, to a point which sometimes astonishes me.
Whenever the world seems to pass by beside me, whenever I can feel the squirrels' cold and the leaves' dreams, I can also feel this deep part of me that has, now I see, shaped my thoughts so much.
I take joy in being with people who share this void deep inside them. It's a bond that does not manifest itself through speech or action. It's a bond unspoken yet so poetic. It's only palpable to those who have their hearts open.
I sometimes develop a sort of pipful feeling for those fortunate enough to lead a steady life; yet so unfortunate for they can't comprehend the poetry of all things...
Of the place they are in, who they are, what made them who they are, life, and the beauty of grief.
I treasure this void in me. It entertains me when I feel its jagged edges, of abrupt departures, of being ripped from the woven steadiness of childhood.

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November 4, 1997 Entry Three - Void
It's really cold outside now, the squirrels must all be seeking warmth from their own fur curling up against the glossing walls of a tree. I feel a void in me. A void which pains for something, something I have only a faint idea of what it is. My thoughts howl in my mind, and old pieces of me jabbed at my heart. I can remember the pain, an old grief lurking deep in me. An old deep wound that seemed to have burrowed down from the surface into the tight notches of my spine, sharing nerves with my sub-conscious self... you can't see it anymore, it's no longer on the surface, but a loss always have a way to take possession back on you, like a back snapping hook, that seems as though it hasn't hurt enough just to prick. As I look back to my more yellow days, I see my living room, with narcissus on the tea table. A distant bus stop; the Pacific wave; my laughter mingled with my familis' noises; falling asleep on the sofa, waking up to see my mother sorting old picutres under the dim light. I can smell dampess in the air. I can hear the straining parts of the air conditioner. I can smell my bed. As I reach deep into my memories an emptiness struck me. A loneliness, a void; I miss the smells of my old life. I pain for it, now that It's gone forever, only to be redeemed in lonely hours in a foreign land. I know a long time ago, that this void, of robbed expectations, of unfulfilled days, will be part of me forever, and I subconsciouly and purposefully yearn for anything that makes sense, gives reason to all this. I loved where I was, but now I have learned, that it wasn't so much the place, but it was the fact that I grew up there that made me so attached to it. I miss my homeland, to a point which sometimes astonishes me. Whenever the world seems to pass by beside me, whenever I can feel the squirrels' cold and the leaves' dreams, I can also feel this deep part of me that has, now I see, shaped my thoughts so much. I take joy in being with people who share this void deep inside them. It's a bond that does not manifest itself through speech or action. It's a bond unspoken yet so poetic. It's only palpable to those who have their hearts open. I sometimes develop a sort of pipful feeling for those fortunate enough to lead a steady life; yet so unfortunate for they can't comprehend the poetry of all things... Of the place they are in, who they are, what made them who they are, life, and the beauty of grief. I treasure this void in me. It entertains me when I feel its jagged edges, of abrupt departures, of being ripped from the woven steadiness of childhood.
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