In the summer heat of that stuffy small room and that tiny single bed we cuddled and we laughed. 

“I like it when you make me laugh” I said.

“I like making you laugh” you replied.

I remember what it was that I found so funny. I remember submitting to the heat, our skin sticky, our eyelids heavy. We napped. 

The months have dwindled to days. Summer is soon upon us. Our meeting seems strange and far away. I wonder if we’ll laugh again. 

I suppose not. I suppose that’s okay. 

*i am afflicted by a certain maladies that absorbs all notions of excitement, passion, and purpose. it leaves life wanting. it shows everything to be futile.

*of the thousands of hours i have spent traveling between various parts of the city, i have invested much in looking into the faces of strangers. ‘resting face’ it’s called, i believe. most people are rather un-emotive. i wonder what’s there to read on me. probably bitch face.

*between micros, tempos, taxis, buses, and pedestrians, i wonder how many in this city i have crossed lives with. if but for a moment. faces shuffle around and i have no way of knowing if i’ve come across the same person hundreds of times, or if this shall be our only passing. how many stories does this city hold?

*i do, however, recognize the bus boys on my route. i wonder if they ‘know’ me, i wonder how many others they ‘know’

*i am in awe of a friend’s concern for me. the imperative my friend feels to motivate me. to make sure i don’t waste my potential. (my damn potential has been the worst thing about being me.) regardless, it leaves me in great respect of my friend

*honesty that comes across as truths that don’t hurt is a rare thing. i suppose it is slowly incubated over time and the unfolding design of specific relationships. i know it exists because i’ve had truth offered to me with no malice and such love,
“i definitely think you need to brush up your writing, but it’s your topics that are so interesting”
in an over-said, over-stated world, does there remain anything to contribute? my friends think so.

*what purpose does an idea serve if nothing is to ever come of it? if at full blossom it passes as a comment made in a forgettable conversation. (can’t that be enough?)

*”meditate” he used to tell me. but he doesn’t speak much to me anymore. and the space in my head continues to be cluttered.

*if only cleaning up after a broken heart could be done in the same fashion and time as rearranging my room, wardrobe, and seasonal clothes.

*i’m keeping my things tidy, and my nails well kept. this is me trying.

*in all the words and thoughts i vomit on my friend, i am frustrated at how limited it makes me feel. if only i could have voiced things to certain people, but they don’t want to listen. and so these thoughts, these words, they bubble over, they spill, they stain, they scar. and my vulnerabilities burrow more so in their hole.

*i think i am several years into feeling so…exhausted

*there is less comfort to find here than i had hoped

*hope is a two-faced bitch

*and so it is.

K, my darling darling darling K,(who I may be more than slightly obsessed with) gave me some truly amazing advice: “go get inspired”.

said weeks ago in the middle of heated conversation (intermittent with fits of laughter), the phrase has stayed with me. go get inspired. when those words were uttered I laughed in my friend’s face and said that was the stupidest advice i’d ever heard, but there is great wisdom to it that I am on a mission to uncover.  my journey to discover gems of truth begin with questions:

what is inspiration? what are the things that inspire? why do certain things inspire some and not others? how exactly does inspiration work? where does one go to find inspiration? and, what inspires me?

I stumble through attempts at answers but my theories are weak and on my own, my thoughts are malnourished and underdeveloped. what I have come to learn though, is that I experience passion in good conversation. my soul awakes and until the conversation diminishes from my memory–those moments give my life meaning. sometimes I wonder if the only time I find purpose in life is when I question it altogether.

recently, under the influence of good times and good company, I’ve had the privilege of exploring thoughts, of offering ideas, and of having the world inside my head grow. there is a thrill to voice things rarely said, to find companionship in questions, to guide and be guided, and to be searching with someone but without any judgment. within these instances I continue to be amazed by the capacity we posses to think so many realms beyond and within ourselves. to develop a view that encompasses everything from the smallest microscopic scale to beyond how our universe is expanding. to go from the physical to the theoretical. from what I can hold in my hand to what I carry in my mind. to be limitless is exhilarating (and admittedly exhausting).

these thoughts, these conversations, I feel a heavy significance to them. I fear they are at risk of going to waste. I wonder what could be accomplished by finding a way to keep them. to build on them. to grow from them. to, perhaps, give them more meaning. I cannot believe we are the only ones to brush instances with these thoughts, and if we are not alone…especially if we are not alone, infinity grows if we can find others.

I have been vague. I have yet to state what these topics are, but I cannot explain them because I do not know how. I know they hang somewhere along philosophical and meta, but considering how I tripped and potholed through Kant, Descartes, Kierkegaard and their ilk, it is inconceivable that I should attempt to pen concepts in that direction. these topics that pique my interest are not necessarily less significant than what the great minds struggled with, maybe the struggle is actually the same but the context my thoughts are put in are slightly more…quirky.

what am I trying to get at? in this moment I am struggling to effectively communicate a thought in my head. I am fascinated that I had an abstract thought but this thought was experienced and conceived somewhere beyond language and common communication. yet, the fact that I had the thought proves that it is not beyond human computation. regardless, when it comes to sharing the idea I am so painfully limited. at best, I convey a portion of it.  how amazing is that? how amazing is that? how much more is there happening inside our minds that we are unable to grasp. and then again, how much is happening in our world, our society, in nature, in space, in existence, in history that we remain so limited in? thiiiis thiiiiiiis these are the things I want to spend my life exploring.

from the Marina Trench (the deepest point in the world under water) and how studies on it has changed our understanding of the earth, to black holes and what’s inside black holes (possible white holes!!!), to how technology is at a point where you can’t escape surveillance even when you stay off the grid, in making sense of what it is to be heartbroken, what it means to be heart broken, and the implications of believing I have lost the man I love, to viewing all religions as man created constructs subject to human evolution and influence…I want…I want it all. I thirst, I hunger, I ache for knowledge that is on the precipice of…everything…known…and unknown.

within these thoughts possibilities are endless and inspiration is well overdue .

later today, i will be picking up my passport. the naya MRP walla. in an effort to be inspired, to be responsive, to no longer trudge through life listlessly, i’ve decided my passport in a worthy topic to jot down a few thoughts about.

i find it slightly surprising, but there is so much i want to say.

for most of my life i’ve never really thought about my passport as my identity. it isn’t me. my passport doesn’t determine my personality, it doesn’t influence my sense of humor, it doesn’t contribute to my likes or dislikes or hobbies or passions….or does it?

on more than one occasion others have assumed i have a passport from another country and i always wonder why i feel like i must defend my claim to have a passport that is this particular shade of green.(“i may have grown up around the world, but my heart and blood is nepali!”) what does this little booklet really say about me? why is it that having one country over other changes the way people perceive me?

what really is the worth of having paper and ink (and a photo) to offer me legitimacy in saying, ma Nepali hu. sometimes my mind has difficulty understanding life through official documents and systems. am i not who i am simply because i am? isn’t my being here enough evidence of my existence? the bureaucratic world thinks not.

and so my thoughts wander along… just how valuable is my passport? i ache to see the whole world and i know my passport is how i will venture to many places, yet, yet, yet, it’s having this passport that limits me so. there are few things in the world i dread as much as visa applications. i know just about every country i can travel to without a visa (or where i can get a visa on arrival) and it leaves much to envy of Canadians and Finns.

does this in turn mean my passport in worth less? (even though i probably end up paying far more in visa fees?) and if my passport is how i am identified, am i worth less? a quick look at the world, the rights of Nepali people, and the abuse they suffer would suggest that anyone with claim to this particular passport is not given the same value.

how tragic. how especially tragic because all it is is paper and ink, ink and paper. in and of itself, isn’t it actually worthless? unless, of course, you consider sentimentality. my old passports have all been hand written there was one where the guy made a mistake and used the edge of a blade to scratch out the error. true story. i used it for five years. my last passport shows a shy 18-year-old me (but i look like i’m 12), and the pages are filled with stamps, stickers, and print out showing my prized possession: the trips i have taken. i will be sorry to let this passport go.

and i will always feel guilty about the passport that will claim me for the next 10 years. i should have applied months ago. i made a few attempts. but one thing or another caused delay, and with less than 6 months validity, my father decided the time had come. he made a phone call to a friend, i sat in an office while everything was put together for me, drinking tea, making polite conversation and i was told to come back in 3 days. source force, you see.

outside people by the 100s scuttered around trying to fill out forms, get signatures, obtain slips, trying to ask for consideration, being confused, being ripped off, and spending hours, days, most likely weeks before getting their passport. but with one connection thereby passing as an elite in this particular instance, i was spared all that. i can’t even pretend to see any justice in it. i couldn’t look straight at young eager faces standing in line, those long long long lines.

i went this morning to pick up my passport, the date had been preponed by a signature, i was allowed to enter without a pass, and at the window i kindly stated “tara waha-le ahile aunu bhannu bhayeko thiyo?” because even though i don’t like it, i know referring to the person behind an important signature is worth more than the due process i should have underwent. her reply has left me with many questions, “yesto khalko case 3pm paachi matrai hunncha“. i fit into a category “this type of case”, a much nicer way of saying “those who have and use connections”.  i am amused, using a method outside the system had caused the system to adapt-there is a system for those outside the system. considering i’d have a new passport in hand within 4 days of submitting my application, i felt no need to argue over a few hours. “hunnca, thank you, ma 3pm paachi aunnchu“.

and that’s what i’ll do. i’ll head back at 3, i will feel more guilt, and when i apply for my next visa, as i always do,i will feel worth slightly less.  i will feel embarrassed at the way my nationality is treated, i will be angered by  how humanity erodes because of documents, and i will look back and wonder if this moment of using a connection will be the line from which i can say i too was a part of corruption.

for a book so little, there’s so much packed into it.  and for this hue of green, my struggle with a Nepali/cross cultural identity continues.

there are many topics i hesitate to write about these days. topics that are cliche, overdone, over-said, trivial, and in the end result in a pile of meaningless words. how tragic for words to be used and to amount to so little. so i’ve been avoiding it, i suppose. or that’s one (of countless) reasons i’ve given myself for why i don’t write anymore.

maybe i’m just lazy. maybe i’m not inspired. maybe i need to start somewhere.

this is somewhere. even if that place is here…again…at heartbreak.

there’s an old familiar to this. the knowledge of having been here already. the understanding of how things go. a few years ago i wouldn’t have believed heartbreak could be so…routine…and yet, there is a pattern: the period of daily crying, the weight in my heart that leaves me drowning, the determination to look damn-fine (who says you can’t be heartbroken AND hot?), and then again wanting to hide from the world, the faking of being glad to be single, acceptance, anger at love with an expiration date, rebounding, the hurt of unfulfilled promises, the pain that persists…and through all these phases, the miracle of recovery.

perhaps in some way i’ve wised up with each relationship, even if it’s only to grow in knowing that i will be okay. that love, well, it doesn’t work out the way you want it to, but that doesn’t make the love you shared a waste. i’ll be fine, i know i will. in some ways, having done this several times i can skip phases and heal quicker maybe. or maybe certain disappointments grow deeper. or maybe there’s less room to give a shit.

in any case, here i am, this again. so so weary.  i’m at the point where i’m making conscious decisions: no i will not let him take me for granted. no i will not cry anymore. no, i will not choose to harbor anger. no, i will not choose bitterness. i will choose better things.once again, i will be better than all of this.maybe i’ll just choose to laugh it all off. there is much that is laughable about heartache.so I will permit a little leniency on topics i consider worthy of publishing. as it is, not many readers come by here anymore which is just as well, this is my little space. here, in words (dashed with a sprinkle of tears) i’ll find my peace, i’ll find my place. i’ll get over him, just like always.

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