𝐃 𝐗 𝐌 𝐈 𝐍 𝐈 𝐐

And when I’m back in Chicago, I feel it. Another version of me, I was in it

I held my phone, in my hand, I watch different versions of people I used to know wriggle around in a small screen. They’re happy and in some sort of activity, performing in front of a camera. Hearts clicked. Comments posted. Affirmations retorted.

“So many faces I don’t recognize, smiling back at me through filters, through snippets.” And then another post about pretty girls and a happy work life, unphased, adulterated, and somehow thriving under the pressures from work.

There are times when I’d like to vicariously live off them, climb into them, experience what it truly means to be successful, happy, and achieved—well adjusted, calm, and perfect.

On the next post Brian Eno is assembling a Palestinian relief concert with Damon Albarn and Pink Panthress according to Anthony Fantano, the world’s busiest music nerd. The band Garbage has been infuriated by the lack of care the US government has towards a people whose fate our country has influenced.

America, yes. In which I tell you about my move from Manila to live in California. So far, that’s the simplest reason for why I’m here. The sheer act of immigration is mostly celebrated by those who return to reunite with their families. I am thrust here, alone, and overwhelmed at the sight of myself, now.

I open one of my files, an old folder in my Google Drive called ‘trash’. I unearth a picture of me. And then I’m back in Manila, looking at another version of me.

Enter troubadour –

In the airport I look a decade younger, tired, eyes dead from waiting six hours before my flight from MLA to SFO. Closing my eyes, I remember what the Bay Area looks like from afar. Mountains cradling a grouping of twinkling lights under a blanket of clouds. I can still smell the scent of pencil shavings from the man next to me on that flight. An older woman behind me just finished eating the last mango from Manila she’ll ever eat, tucking the seed in her bag, in a tissue, and falling asleep. I forget what I was listening to…

Back to the photo of me where the airport is bright and crowded. I remember being hungry. I am wearing a black shirt and denim shorts. I had headphones on. I am trying to read a book but I can’t remember what it was about nor do I care.

This song has started now, and you’re just finding out. Now isn’t that a laugh?

I forget this version of me existed but it does. I want to be her again. To be something else.

I look at my phone and check for another email telling me my credit score has gone down. I check why. I had finished paying my car off. There’s a penalty for paying off debt. I remember I have a life here. I haven’t bought clothes in over a decade. I want to go back to who I was and have a beer with the people whose names I can still remember. But I can’t go back.

I wave goodbye to the end of beginning…

I don’t want to go back.