The simple little houses of the small town where I was raised fade away. Their brick wash painted walls turn into the shapeless ghosts of my remembrance.
It is helpless to try to get them back.
Every time I think or talk about them, I replace their true images for what, perhaps, I always want them to be.
It’s a curse.
Every word I say to feel closer to home is surrounded by the sweet and sour flavor of nostalgia. It takes me further away instead.
The voices and smells of the people I met get tangled in my mind with my fantasies, my need to fill the holes in their stories and my past.
If I look back, it seems a thousand years ago. My yesterday never ends. From this cold exile, I no longer smell the smoke of my uncle’s cigar.
But it bothers me more than ever.