Conversation from the past

How was your day?

I ask wearily. The stress

of the last 2 months

has accumulated,

making it difficult for

me to breathe.

It lurks behind my visage

like an ancient dance performed

around a fire,

yet it is something

that is NOT to be

revealed. He says,

"It was okay." Then

we monotonously

talk about the

Capitol riots, the spa

shootings, the anti-Asian

hatred that has crept across

the land, searing the

conscience of the people.

We then jump over to planning

to go to the immersive

Van Gogh exhibit -

the same one as in Paris -

and talk about its LED lights,

the mirrors

reflecting the lights, the

walls of Lights -

something to make me

happy.

"So much has happened the

last few months, since the last

time I saw you," I say.

I have been here, there

everywhere. Yet nowhere

that feels like home.

My side-long glance

reveals everything

about my state of mind.

I smile for you, desperately

trying to make everything

okay, to redeem everything,

to create meaning out of

ashes. But it feels like I'm

grasping at the sands in the

Namibe desert. I try to

cling onto the concrete, but

it is elusive, because

my faith, I've come to realize, is

a mirage.