late musings

found this crumpled in my trunk form a while ago:



lucky to be born in a country rich enough for complexity.
glad to crave the subtleties of language, the levels of emotion
the layers of feeling whether that feeling is pain, anger, sadness, or otherwise.
the blandness of the everyday here- is this just what becoming a grown up is like?
is it the losing of passion? the tempering of extremities?
because i am a being that survives through feeling. one that loves to live passionately,
no matter how much it can hurt. and it is an attention- holding dull ache I feel
here with that lack. i am underdone. underwhelmed. a life this simple is a
silence too deafening, a cold too biting, and a conversation to bland to pay
attention to but too important to leave.
and i want to write, i do. the pull still sits unhappily in my stomach or behind my ribs.
and i know that there are things here. but i i am too afraid that it will come out
too romanticized (the simple life usually does) and i owe this place and these
people more than that. this is not article in national geographic, no commercial
for children international. it's not exotic any more for me and i couldn't live
with myself if i painted it that way.
another side pulls too strongly too-- the jaded, angry volunteer who knows too much,
understands every marriage proposal, tries to make too many people happy and
still gets talked down to because of her gender and, therefore, assumed stupidity,
unimportance, and of course, promiscuity.
but how do i get this out, then? because my time is running out and once i leave, i'll surely
over-romanticize. with your ticket home they give you rosy-colored glasses.

very lady mcbeth-esque, but i just want to say "get out, damned spot/art! get out poetry!"

instead it pools in the spirit and mind of mine. sitting, fermenting. making bad poetry
wine that smells a little like bissap.