I say it's waking up at 5am in the morning, perplexed, not able to smell the coconut oil and see the stains of brandy and tomato sauce on your bedsheets.
Parquet flooring, instead of the cold marble flooring that your dad bought for his first apartment. Hollow and breath-held quiet room, instead of the loud chaotic bazaar besides your poorly structured apartment. Dry skin and chapped lips due to less humid weather. Missing the smell of fresh dried chili from your neighborhood. Watching your old friends getting married from three thousand kilometers away. A "better," yet inaudible life. Going unheard.
The static noise of the cheap speakers that you bought makes you feel like going for a walk. Stumbling upon a stranger with kindness instead of harshness, a bouquet in a trashcan with soda all over it. Waiting for the new folks that you embraced at the train station. Sipping on that fresh mango juice. The lights of a beautiful city and late-night walks. The birthday parties of the friends that you embraced. The "I love you speech" after the Old Rum starts flowing in your blood. Reminiscing 'bout someone that you now frown upon. Smelling the fresh air before going back to the room with the moldy closet again. Light wallet, empty glass. Reminiscing about the bitter yet sweet days of home, sort of like the love-hate that you have with your mother. Keep looking at the keepsakes like it's something you found and not something given to you. Throw back to your old room with curated posters on the wall in the back of your mind like micro sleep. Repeat.
