Backdated for your convenience - October 22, 2009

I listened to drum circles and contemplated the meaning of life.  I wrote in a hand-made journal entitled "My journey to happiness."  I got lost in my own head.  And then lost in the minds of others.  I was fifteen and things were not so different from what they are now.  I thrive in the loneliness of anonymity.  Perhaps too easily adopting the personality traits of those around me.  I enjoy the fantastical, the unreal, the unattainable, because at least it is not mediocrity.  But my search for the divine has led me through too many Siddartha-esque adventures--and maybe some Kafka-esque ones too.  I question the concept of identity.  As a self proclaimed American of color teaching English to Vietnamese,  Laotian and Burmese refugees in Thailand, I can only see irony in the situation.  The only identity trait I have consistently held has be one of the other.  I ebb back and forth between knowing I will never belong and thinking that maybe, somehow, I can make it all different.  I tried so hard because I thought I could make it better.  But I'm starting to believe Sartre's facticity encompasses more than I originally thought.  If I wanted to be dramatic, I'd say I left my heart on a third floor parking garage somewhere in the lower east side.  But I don't think it is that easy.  I'm just tired of the struggle.