Time to the elderly is like a noodle in the rain. Chị Tư once wrote that. It’s kind of funny, awkward and scary to witness how memory is so fragile in older people. I was standing there, listened to a story she has just said an hour earlier, with the same tone, the same face expression, the same questions and answers. I was trying not to show in anyway that I have heard this story. Feel like time is coming back. Time is no longer a linear line, but a toy that goes away and comes back on it own course randomly. Time to her, I guess, is something both inside and outside, an alienating entity yet something within herself.
It’s been long since I want to meet someone so bad just because of his/her voice. Funny how I have always thought I have grown out of the stage where a few words can touch me deeply. But yeah, I have chatted with him quite a few times, I know who he is, but listening to his voice is a totally different experience. I was reminded again, how I used to firmly believe that I can love someone just by listening to their voice.
And now, Im afraid to realize that I am becoming too happy when Im with someone. Im not sure if it is happiness or whatever it is. I just don’t want to feel this way, that’s it. And work, and readings, I don’t know whether it is me or the book, but I can’t get it done. So depressing. Im always afraid to disappoint people I care about, by people here, I mean my professors.
The other night, I told myself: “I don’t want to go back”, weird, that was such a fleeting, but peaceful and relieving thought. Probably, the last ties between myself and home are loosening.