It’s strange but, in this very moment, I don’t miss Japan the least bit.
Author: Olavia Kite
I wish I had a lot to say. The trains and hunger and loneliness have been replaced by buses and feasts and one kiss after another. I must wear a single t-shirt underneath the winter jacket, for when the cold morning is gone, a scorching sun attacks from over the rooftops, beneath the windows, and on his forehead. People talk on the bus, people sell stuff on the bus, people sing along to the songs on the radio on the bus.
Shopwindows are full of tight, bright colored clothes. Everything is cheap, but there is nothing I can wear, nothing I might want to buy. So far, my money has only been spent on food. I’ve (re)tried quite a few dishes, and there’s still a lot coming up. I’m gaining weight.
My bed is as comfortable as I remember it; maybe more. I must give it a good use, so I’ll go to sleep now.
It’s my birthday today. I feel like dancing, like singing really loud. I feel like taking a thousand pictures, like slamming my guitar and remembering all the songs I used to play after school in my grandma’s house.
It feels so good to wake up at the sound of my parents walking into my room… it’s home. Home sweet home, home cold home, my sister listening to electronic music, cheese and fruits in the refrigerator, space to walk around.
Home. Not the streets and the strangers, but the cozy little house in the outskirts of a small South American capital city.
It’s my birthday today, and I feel like not leaving this space, like letting the music invade it until the sun flies over to the other side of the planet, or until jetlag knocks me out.
Innumerable, spotless windows
give way to red wine sofas,
shelves of curious Siddharthas
and indomitable Quixotes.
The warm dimness of the passageways
is a series of wooden mines
where the light within mossy pages
awaits to be unleashed.
Kamala sits expectantly,
her womb aching for streams of honeycomb,
and dreams of technicolor exuberance
wantonly desire the burnt grass plains of Spain.
At the far end of the musty hall
a lonely bewitched pair of eyes
flutters away from a million worlds and suns
back into the dull sound of rain.