05

Every now and then I try to fill up a white box on the screen, with text. If I am lucky I can muster a few paragraphs (see blog entry 03, and probably this one once I'm done with it) but really, in truth, everything I want to say is in the one-worder (see blog entry 04).

Either it's the same thing over and over, or nothing else interesting really happens, or something does happen and it is so special I want to keep it to myself (and also because anything I would say would not do it justice). Or something like that.

Within the six-month span of lost writing momentum:

A home in faith, a new way of expression that words alone could not fill the shoes of; a new level of candor and honesty, letting words slip out, pushing words out; the language of touch, the brushing against, the circling, the Stay; and eye contact, and a prayer I wish I could have kept in a bottle to listen to whenever I wanted, and a friday, and going back to sleepovers, and unspoken understanding, and the rarity of being together wrapped in cozy silence, and knowledge of who sticks around despite distance

I have a habit of suddenly breaking paragraphs just because. And the last paragraph in particular because I don't know how to continue or expound further.

Also, finally feeling the adjustment to the big transition ending. Madeline and her sisters did sing that home is where the heart is (ha ha ha). But this is all still too raw and even the slightest uprooting is rather unbearable (i.e. I have to attend the school's retreat this weekend and I am really not looking forward to it [and I like letters, especially handwritten ones, but if it's not it's perfectly okay, if anyone writes me it will be my Home throughout the retreat meaning it will mean so much to me]). The ending of my essay on Community for CVE (Christian Values Education) last quarter:

With my mother being a diplomat, we never settle in one place, and that sense of never having enough time becomes the norm. It is less shocking, but does not get easier – my life has been spent thinking how much time I have left, and this is a lot harder when thought on smaller scale (as opposed to the bigger scale, which is when life on earth ends). The good this lifestyle has given me is the early realization of what home really is. It is not four walls (or more) and a roof; it is not even a country. It is community, the broader sense of family, that sense of belonging, that something you look forward to seeing, that something that gives, and in turn takes away a part of you and keeps it for itself. With that, you will always find your way back to it.  

My family leaves for another country again, late next year. Leaving is always the worst part, no matter how many times it is done. All I can do now is make the most of the time that I do have, and make sure I leave a home, not just a country.

How do you know if something you want is something you deserve? And how do you know when to stop chasing after it, to stop making the effort, though you really don't know which is more painful, the stopping or the trying.

The parents are once again beginning the preparation for departure and this is really all too soon it gets quite emotionally exhausting and I am blowing this out of proportion again but that's the package that comes with sentimentality. My teacher in grade school who still keeps in touch (and takes beautiful photos), is in Thailand now, teaching children in the provincial areas. He has the ability to do things with everything he has AND slip out of the life he gets used to. So easily. Sometimes I wish I could do that.

The meaning of the word "toska" is in an older blog entry here ("where the english language fails, somewhat"). The meaning can also be found in unbearable silence between you and your person. In the darkness you stare at when you lie in bed at night, clutching your pillow, crying loud enough for only yourself to hear. In every move you make that feels forced, pointless and incessant. In the sense of worthlessness when you realize you are being juggled with something else, when you are pushed to second, or third, or fourth... In the last lines of Grey's Anatomy episodes; in the lack of knowledge of one's wants or confusion about said wants. In the inability to express everything inside you that is screaming to be heard. In the words of another that once felt true, but now cause doubt and denial. In the desperate hope that those words are actually still true. In the longing for something unsure of, in the longing to know what said something unsure of is. In waiting. In trying so hard not to expect anything so that any hope will not be sent crashing down. In that heavy chest feeling when you try not to cry. In missing.

Or maybe it isn't the same thing over and over, maybe it's not that nothing else interesting really happens, or something does happen and it is so special I want to keep it to myself. Maybe I want you to find me.

Or, yanno, something like that.