I’m always compelled to tell the same narrative of how I got here (California). It’s been 8 years since I left Manila and the memory is still fresh and blurry and exhausting. I’m not good at remembering, not like how most people are. Documenting my life was never my priority, not in these circumstances. I couldn’t just latch on to some white guy for an apartment or self-validation. Even if I wanted to, I was more into the idea that I could be with someone female and finally experience the world as a proper lesbian.
Last night, I had a dream where I conversed with myself in high school. It was hazy and full of anger because there was no banana ketchup for the chicken lollipop. The night before that I had a dream where I was in a mall in my home city (Makati, for the curious) and making fun of the upper middle class girls that were all over foreigners.
I’m always compelled to tell the same narrative of how I have an excuse for why I’m not going to go and visit Manila. There’s literally no one to come back to there [except for my immediate family]. I’m not saying I don’t have friends back home. I do. But, like most love stories, the heart begins to lose interest in things that aren’t really there anymore.
Ghost stories are exhilarating in small bursts. Perhaps, when I choose to visit, my haunting would be a spectacular one.