How does one take away the intense, visceral notion of home without abrading something or the other? How does one hold and let go in the same instance? How does one remember without wanting to explain and set to rest?
I lay out and examine evidence of my origins, weekend after weekend only to forget it between Saturdays... except of course as testimony to my right to scholarship and guidelines to my race. But then it rains and washed away all resolve. It rains and pours and it is the same downpour and the same rivulets and I float my boat backward and regress. My mind recalls voices and smells and sounds and silences. It fashions simultaneity in past worlds and while fighting to keep pace with this one. It reminds me that this is possible even if painful. It grapples with mature presence while insisting on its right to be petulant. Small little ethereal entity pummeling at thin air and lightning streaks. Sometimes, I feel sorry for the travails of my mind.
They tell me that nostalgia is false and longing elusive. They write that structures of feeling are only real inasmuch as they point to economies, migrations, materialities and motilities. I tell myself that it is all but a way to pass time. This is my dream world and that other phantasmagoric dream is my home and one is no truer than the other. And truth has no value and there is no truth.