You’re falling. You can feel your loose-fitting clothes fluttering violently like a sail of a boat heading into a storm. It’s going to rain soon - You can smell it in the air. Then you start to feel droplets hit your face. First only as trace strokes then faint ghostly smudges, gradually wetting your face until no one drop could be made out in the cascading onslaught of flowing water. You’re falling faster than them - Your terminal velocity is catching up to the rain - They are terrified - Running away from you. The rain is not falling onto you but you onto it, invading its private insides, the top side, where it is not falling but completely static, a calm lake in the eye of the projectile droplet. You wipe away the raindrops accumulating on your eyebrows - You can’t see the ground or anything resembling it. It's just endless miles of black. It’s totality occupies everything below you from all horizons, almost uniform, but with patches of movements contorting its silhouette. It reminds you of a field of black grass, being swayed by frolicing gushes of wind. You realise you are looking at microscopic waves, infinitely far away. You can't hear it - The carpet of water before you, the crashing waves are drowned out by the cascading onslaught of walls of air, ripping on your impact, and dragging it's jagged edges across your head as you fall through the tear. The walls are uniformly chaotic like the carpet. Organically erratic. No two moments are the same but as a whole it is indifferentiable. The noise fills in the vacuum left by silence, like water filling in air.
You flip around to see where you fell from, but you can't. Above you, the sky is uniformly retreating away. It's also black but with a faint glow like twilight trapped by the curvature of the atmosphere. You’ve been falling seemingly forever, since before you ever realised that you were falling at all. It’s almost nice if you forget the impact. You never notice the fall - Only the landing. You look over to the horizon, where the two hemispheres of black meet, separated only by the faint contrast of the half-light in the sky and the non-light in the ocean. There’s nothing else in the sky, just you and the drops of rain all falling together, soon plunging down into the cold black - WHUUUSCH…
Startling awake ready to vomit. I spring up from my bed and sprint across my bedroom into the connected ensuite bathroom. The tiles are a sickly green, hospitalike adding to the nausea. My stomach, filled with cheap Thai food and day-old Chang beer, desperately wanting to get out. My head, occupied by a pulsing headache and flooding with bad ideas. Minutes of dry heaving to no avail - It’s probably just anxiety anyways. It was my birthday. Syd Hülsenbeck, 19, barely an adult and already fucking it all up. I make my way downstairs to make a coffee and settle my stomach. I never liked birthdays. It’s just a day, like any other, but for some reason everyone expects you to be joyous - Gleaming with confidence. A state of being which I’m not too familiar with. Walking down the stairs, I could sense the nostalgic smell of cigarette smoke in the dry air. The sentiment hits you for a brief moment, triggering a memory, but disappears too fast to be reminisced. My Father, Gottlieb Hülsenbeck, was already up, scrolling X with a cigarette in his hand.
“Moin, moin, moin Freund.” I say to him, jolting his attention.
“Good Morning, you really slept in today” He replies, surprised by my sudden appearance.
“Yeah, I called Caesar and he’s already in Germany so, I must’ve fallen asleep around 5am”, I continue, setting up the coffee volcano.
“No worries, after all it’s your birthday” He reassures me, already back to scrolling X.
“I guess it is… yeah” I never knew how to act about my birthday, MY day. Should I go full Diva and make everything about me. Hoard all the attention and expect everybody to follow my every whim. My inner Farang is telling me to do that. Treat your day like private property and abuse everyone who occupies it, but no-one likes an egoist, even on his birthday. The Thai in me is telling me to do the opposite. It’s not about me, it’s about all the people that helped create me but no-one likes a self pitying birthday boy either.
I spend the day sorting through a mountain of Fischer-Technik with my father, the last of my childhood not-yet boxed up or thrown away. The careful combination of specialised pieces made to fit in specific playsets and a decade of chaotic, spontaneous play, leaves a sisyphean task of sorting it all again. Over the course of an afternoon, what was first a stack of boxes became hundreds of piles of small plastic pieces scattered all over the dining- and living rooms, eventually returning back into the same stack of boxes at the start. To find order in the chaos - More chaos must first be created. The Fischer-Technik had previously belonged to my father decades ago, so the sorting process was nostalgic for the both of us. We reminisce about our childhoods, but mainly mine, as mine has just come to an abrupt end a month ago. We talk more about me than the Fischer-Technik. About how I’ve grown, how I’ve changed over the years and how he could consider himself proud for having raised me. A clump begins developing in my throat and my cheeks, starting to quiver erratically. You’re going to cry - don't try to stop it. I fall silent and start intensely focussing on the Fischer-Technik to hide my deforming face from my Father. Why make him sad? I mean, I don’t even have a rational reason to be sad. Besides, he won’t know what to say anyway - Why burden him with the task of consoling me. He asks me if I'm okay and I try to swallow the clump down my throat to answer, but it just returns stronger and more aching. I barely stammer out the most unconvincing “Yeah… I’m fine” before excusing myself to go to my room. Once the door closed - I wept.
I wake up early to the sound of my mother shouting my name from outside my room.
“Syd, Get up! - We have to go! The car is waiting!”
My mother, Chantira Boonmee, had organised a hiking trip as a sort of going away-เลี้ยงส่ง (Liang song) trip for the two of us. My parents separated when I was young, which has the consequence that I have to celebrate everything twice. Double the birthdays, double the presents - That was enough to sell the idea of divorce to a 5-year old Syd. The plan is to go to a Karenni village in Chiang Dao, hike around and raft back. Alongside it being a เลี้ยงส่ง trip, it was also to survey the village as a possible destination for my mothers’ meditation tour. My mother, an ardent Buddhist, had always tried to raise me in and around temples. To instil in me some Buddhist ideals, which in her opinion sets you up for a fulfilled life. Compared to the constant striving for an imperative goal, which can’t be achieved anyway. This often came into conflict with my father, Gottlieb, ironically an ardent atheist. Growing up many conversations at dinner were about religion, but God was never once a part of the discussion. In Buddhist countries like Thailand - the notion of God, the deistic Übermensch is absurd. People can’t conceive the idea of God. In a society where unanswered questions are the state of nature - Instituting a catch-all God just wasn’t needed or wanted. It makes the work of Missionaries here seem almost pointless.
In the car, we were joined by two guides, both from indigenous hill-tribes in the mountains. They were both Christians, belonging to some bizarre protestant sects, like the 7-Day-Adventists or Jehova’s Witnesses. My only contact with christians were with these sorts - Missionaries with a Führerprinzip and their victims. These men rush over to exotic countries to carve out little kingdoms of their own, in remote places without electricity where their word reigns supreme. Like Prometheus they brought them fire so the people remain loyal to their church. But unlike Prometheus they syphon off donations from peasants to fund their multi-million dollar organisations and extravagant lifestyles.
“I brought you God, Now give me money” They preach the virtue of poverty and suffering on Facebook Live from the insides of their air conditioned Tesla SUVs.
We arrive at the village two hours late, because the only road up had turned liquid from the previous night's monsoon, requiring precise manoeuvring to drive exactly in the ridges of the car in front. In Thai fashion, everyone’s starving, despite the fact that we had lunch already - And snacks in the car. My mother and the two guides immediately disappear into a bamboo cottage - giddy to make Somtam (Spicy Papaya Salad).
“I have a surprise for you…” My mother shouts, barely audible over the hammering of a teak Sakabuer in a ceramic crucible.
“Come over here” She stops hammering the papaya to reach in her pocket and pull out something shiny.
“I got this for you - for your trip - to keep you safe” She hands you the shiny object and clasps it in your hand. It falls in your palms - Cold - And heavy.
“Make sure you wear this all the time - It’ll tell the spirits to protect you” I unclasp my hand to see a Bronze Buddha Amulet inside of a metal casing attached to a dazzling silver chain. The casing is engraved with a complex pattern, I couldn’t make out.
“What is it?” I ask, holding the amulet up to a sunbeam coming in through the crack in the Bamboo. The chain begins to glow a fantastic dance of little lights, almost organic like a rave in a glow worm's nest. “It’s very shiny”
“It’s the Buddha we saw in Ayutthaya from the 2000 year old shrine we visited - don't you remember?” She looks at me, looking at the amulet, smiling. “I even asked the monk to instil an incantation - Just for your trip - How about that?”
“And what’s this on the casing?” I ask, still transfixed by the light show.
“It’s Todsakan - the ‘King of Giants’ from the Ramayana.” She takes the dangling amulet from you and unclasps the chain “It’s so the ghosts and demons know you’re friendly. So they won’t get scared and attack you - They really only attack in self defence” She pulls the chain around your neck. It's just the perfect length for the amulet to sit snugly in the concave indent of your ribs.“Do you like it?” The chain is cold and the amulet sits exactly over your heart, as if it was always meant to be there - As if the gap left by Pectus Excavatum was just the universe predestinating this amulet to arrive.
“I like it - I like it alot”
The sound of the monsoon crashing on the thin metal roof kept me awake all night. The wooden room becomes a resonator for the sheet metal - Echoing the rain back and forth into a wall of sound.
I wander off sometime after sunrise, winding down the valley, to look at the flooded rice terraces, quickly getting myself soaked. The morning is calm despite the dramatic onslaught of nature. Outside of man made homes, the monsoon isn’t so terrifying. The same force that quickly sends people into a frenzy, rushing to find shelter, is reversed for nature. The distant rumble of the monsoon acts as a call “The humans are gone - Now you’re safe to come out!” A Symphony of rain toads and crickets resonate in the jagged cliff-walls of the valley. Bouncing back and forth in a unison exclamation of ecstasy. I carefully make my way to the farmers hut in the ricefield, being careful to walk precisely on the overgrown banks of each rice paddy, each step deforming into mud. Besides me in the flooded paddies, fish and toads are leaping in and out and form one paddy to another - Almost like a dance. In the canopy I can faintly make out the swinging of gibbons. I’m brought back to a memory of me sitting in the courtyard of an old house I used to live in as a kid. The force of the rain is enough to compress the canopy of our mango tree into a humanlike figure. I would stand in the rain, like I am now - Watching the panicked squirrels leaping from electric pole to electric pole. I would jump around the puddles, like these fish are now, and imagine I was one of the squirrels. I was cold - Like I am now.
Distracted by memory, I step off of the mud bank and directly into someone's crop. Immediately falling on my face and sinking half a metre into the muddy water. A human silhouette carved into the fluffy green rice paddy. “Fuck, my Wranglers are ruined!” I mumble to myself, as I slowly wipe away the mud from my pants. Realising it’s futile, I stop. Just sitting there, in my soaking clothes half submerged in mud, barely peeking my head over the grown rice. The pouring rain crashed onto the back of my neck and blinded me with a constant flow of water over my eyes. Soon the fish begin leaping back and forth over my bent knees. I sit there and watch them, trying my best not to scare them away. A sudden chill pulls me back into memory. You’ve been here before. You know this place - but why? I try to get up, causing me to sink further into the mud. My hiking boots are weighed down by the mass, pulling me back into the water, not wanting me to leave. I make heavy steps with my now trunk like pants and shoes, covered in a thick layer of mud. I emerge from the field as only a shape, no longer me. The rain is getting harder, and seeing becomes an increasingly difficult task. The hulking brown mass continues on the banks towards the little hut, wiping away the water from its brow with every step. The hut is not empty but instead occupied by a small family of water buffaloes, hiding away from the rain. The mud banks are now almost fully liquid, but by this point the hulking mass no longer cares. It keeps walking, leaving behind cakes of mud instead of footprints. The buffaloes pay me no attention. Huddled together, looking out into the rice paddies - Almost as if mesmerised by the view.
I sit down on the wooden bench in the little hut and look out with the buffaloes into the fields. You’ve been here before - You know this place. Is this where you’re from? - From before the fall - Before all this madness started. You lie down and quickly fall asleep.
Who are you now? What have you become? Are you anyone at all?
The You, you’ve spent your whole life crafting, is dead, neatly packed up into 4 small cardboard boxes A coffin of your childhood left to decay in the garden shed. You’re all alone, sitting on a broken bed frame surrounded by four all encompassing white walls, bleeding from a shaving wound on your chin. You’re so small compared to the outstretching walls - Yet you’re suffocating. Only traces of your past remain, as dust outlines and tape residue left from the posters you’ve taken down. Maybe if you squint you could make out who you were, but not really. The clothes you have on, your stinking socks and an empty wallet with nothing more than your ID with a face you no longer recognize and a Future Forward Party membership card is all that's left of you. You’re all alone. All the people who knew the old You are gone - off to Germany to start their next life or condemned to the institution you’ll never return to again. The living proof of You is gone - Now only You remain.
My mother always told me that you don’t die once, but instead life is a series of little deaths and little births. Your old self will die and before you realise it, your new self will reincarnate and replace it. It leaves you confused as to whether that previous self was ever real to begin with or if it’s just some nostalgic longing for a sentimentalised past that never really existed to begin with. Syd died on the night of his graduation and Syd will be born again when he arrives in Germany. But until then, what am I, just a personality crisis roaming the plains looking for something to do - Someone to be.
For my last friday in Chiang Mai, I wanted to relive my childhood, if only for a night, maybe it’ll trigger something. So I went to the Pub with my father. Walking the same streets I used to as a kid on Fridays, over the moat and along the redbrick walls of the old town. The setting sun, giving way to the fluorescent lights of the city. Streetside noodle soup vendors pack up to leave room for Kebab wagons and Mala stands. The coffeeshops send out the last hipsters and close up as the marijuana dispensaries switch on their neon lights. A marching crowd of chang-shirted Farangs and students file down the street following the dance music. The skaters pull out the metal rails and wooden quarter pipes from under the yellow blossoms of the Ratchapak trees by the Three Kings Monument.
The familiar sounds of 90’s alternative rock and cigarette smoke welcomes us to Sax’ Bar. My father makes his rounds going from table to table, saying hi and exchanging crude jokes with the other regulars, before finding our usual spot and ordering the usual Chang beers. It’s routine. First you must get through the onslaught ‘your mother jokes’ before the men can talk politics. I just sit there and watch, trying to follow the week's topics, before the discussion gets too repetitive as the men get progressively more and more drunk. I look out at the street and the 7-11 opposite. At the sweatridden backpackers and their love for the night, resting their legs by the curb from a long night of dancing - Nothing else matters, only this cigarette we are sharing, here on the street by the trash pile and the family of rats living beneath it. That running-joke we keep repeating, barely recognisable as a joke anymore, feels like the only truth we’ve ever known. In this moment of nothing at all - We finally become something.
My attention drifts back to the pub. Now two 50 year-old English-Geezers are shouting about Brexit with my father closely watching like a Muay Thai match, giggling and mumbling incomprehensibly at each retort. The two, in traditional English fashion, decide to resolve their argument over a game of darts - with the Brexiteer winning. I walk over to the bar to order myself a Beer Lao, as a strange melancholy washes over me. The sentimentality is nice if it were not the last time.
I take the Beer Lao to go and wander off down the street. Nearing the midnight curfew - The night clubs are emptying out their patrons, gathering large crowds of aimless people out front. Individually fiddling with their phone trying to call up a Tuk Tuk to get them home. I walk past Zoe’s, the main clubbing street of the town, where the music is still blaring. Every pub, trying to play their music over the neighbors and drunk arithmetic white people, trying their best to follow the piling up beats, creating a strange poly-rhythm in their swaying. The noise blends together into an onslaught of sound, with the bass being the only telligible melody. Ecstatic youngsters, supposedly in the prime of their lives, saying goodbye to their new found families, before stumbling into the street - Only for the profound loneliness to find them again. The Meaning they supposedly found on the dance floor, instantly vanishes, leaving a new void to be filled next friday. My mother always said that nothing is permanent. We are all creatures doomed to forever wander the Samsara, fixated on the small timescales we can comprehend. She never mentioned that it would be THIS fleeting, tho.
In the middle of the street with a half empty Beer Lao, I begin to sway, almost involuntarily - As if moved by the bass. I look up to the sky, still swaying, at the faint outline of the Ratchapak trees. A drizzle begins to fall off my face. I’m so alone. But so is everyone else here. Fragmented into their own intoxicated worlds, where no-one can peer in. We’re all alone - But for a moment we’re alone together - And that’s the closest we’ll ever get to knowing anyone anymore.
“Hey you’ve made it” shouts a chubby man from a bustling crowd of artists and bohemians. It’s Günther Grosz, eccentric art collector and a friend of the family. “I was beginning to think, you fell into the moat or something.” He laughs and slaps me on the back. We remove our shoes and make our way inside, pushing aside a large canvas and into the living room. The gallery was also Güther’s home. He likes to be surrounded by art - A multi coloured force-field from the grey of the world. The room was packed with people, self segregating into little circles. The Thai art students sitting in the front listening to a Slor player, playing traditionalist renditions of The Beatles - The Germans gathering themselves by the beer cooler. “Exhibition's up those stairs, beers in the back. It’s great to see you here, really.” Günther tells us before excusing himself. My father quickly makes his way to the back of the gallery to say hello to the other Germans and to grab a beer, while I stay with the Thais out front.
“It’s fucking bullshit man - It’s a parlementary coup - That’s what it” shouts out one of the students, slamming a beer on the table. “They’re good fucking actors I’ll give them that - The fucking doctor - Whats his name. Cholanan, yeah. Talking his ass off, ‘We won’t betray the Coalition’, ‘We won’t betray the people’ and then what? The moment Pita can’t form a government he immediately goes to the fucking Rat, Anutin, and our uncles in the military.”
“It was clear from the beginning” another student shouts out “Remember the shit they pulled with the Speaker of the House. They may wear red shirts but they bleed yellow.”
“Just wait four years, man - It’ll be a fucking landslide - If they try to pull some-” the first student continues
“then they’ll HAVE TO bring out the tanks to stop us” interrupts another student.
“เพื่อไทย เหี้ยอะไรว่ะ แม่งคิดเเต่เพื่อตัวเอง แม่งอยากพาทักสินกลับ บ้าน ก็พูดตรงตรงซี้ อย่ามาหลอกคน อย่างงี้ (Pheu Thai - Bullshit. They only think about themselves. They just want to get Thaksin home. Then tell the truth - Don't mess with people like this.)” I chime in, flashing my Future Forward Party membership card and finding a seat amongst the students. Chiang Mai is traditionally a red town, usually loyal to Thaksin's family, which comes from here. But with this backstab, all the red has been drained out laying bare the orange flesh underneath. But really the soul of Chiang Mai is not partisan - It’s an anarchist town. The rebellious Devada lives in its smog-ridden air, painting the sunrise an apocalyptic RED and the sunset a mystifying BLACK. Its streets are covered with leaflets from the Neo Lanna Resistance Movement and graffiti reading “Free our Friends!”
I make my way to the back, where the same political debate is happening amongst the mainly East-German expats. “It’s the Revolution- It’s already happening all around us. Before 1918 there was 1905. Before the November Revolution there were the Spartacist Letters.” exclaims a man drunkenly to my father, before he sees me walk in. He turns to me and lays a heavy hand on my shoulder, seemingly to stabilise himself. “Listen to me Syd”, pausing to sway back and forth “We’re the Spartacists here - Remember that. We’re just waiting for the sailors' mutiny. There’s no turning back what we already achieved.” He turns back to my father “After a hundred years, the Fascists are crumbling from internet memes. Fucking memes! They couldn’t even ban 1984 - they banned picnics instead. That’s a losing side if I've ever seen one.” turning back to me “Of course there’ll be blood. They’re not going down without a fight, they never do. Of course they’ll send you boys out to shoot your own cousins” He steps back and regains his composure then steps back towards me. “Just promise me one thing, Syd” He looks intently into my eyes, now speaking in a lower voice “When the Order comes in to shoot - you take that gun, the one they taught you to shoot in ROTC, and you point it square at the general giving the orders - And you do some fucking good that way!”
I don't say anything.
This is it - Are you ready? For whatever comes now?
I briefly zone out looking at the neon-glow of Warorot Market, fidgeting with a ball of sticky rice in one hand, holding my head in another. It's cacophony of lights reflecting on the Ping, pulls me away from the dinner conversation. It’s my last night here in Chiang Mai and I can’t bear looking at my parents. My eyes remain on the slow waltz of lighted wave-peaks bobbing up and down with the current. The market is as busy as it always is. Motorbikes whizzing by, picking up flowers from the roadside. A maze of food stalls fills the street, its unmistakable smell wafting across the Ping onto the river bank, where we are sitting. This is what you’re leaving behind - You don’t want to go - But you can’t stay either - You’ll go insane.
“How are you feeling, Syd?” my mother asks, but my eyes remain fixed on the scene across the river. “Now it gets real - Are you excited?”
“I'm ecstatic” I reply in a sarcastic tone but then correct myself with a more appropriately excited “No, I really am.”
“I’m off on the road now, you know - Off into the great abyss” I add after a short pause. “It’s going to be a… An exciting year. A lot of new experiences.”
“You really have a lot ahead of you, your reverse Marco Polo trip - going to Berlin by land. That’s a real journey - I’m almost jealous” chimes my father.
“It’s going to be incredible honey,” my mother adds, reaching out to hold my hand.
“Aren’t you worried - Not even a little - Cause I am” I ask with a stammer in my voice, taking a bite out of the ball of sticky rice in my hand.
“To be fully honest - No. Not at all. There will be bad days, but knowing you, you’d persevere. You could tell me you’re going to Afghanistan and I'll happily call up some of my Taliban friends to show you around.” my father replies in an earnest voice. “In the worst case you always have a next life” My mother chimes in, causing both parents to erupt in laughter.
I wish they were a little worried, tell me 'No you can’t do that. It’s too dangerous’ and put me on a plane straight to Berlin. Make me start my next life now - But no they have to be supportive and back up my insane Ideas - Ideas I know will get me killed one day. Instead doubt me, make my life easy and plan it all out for me. They give me this freedom to do whatever I like - The curse of consciousness. What the fuck! I thought parents were supposed to be authoritarian dictators. Isn’t the root of fascism found in the oppressive Nuclear family? Whatever Foucault said. What kind of commie-nonsense is this ‘We trust you in whatever you want to pursue - You’ve got this’ Hippie Bullshit. I'm terrified and I wished they would just give me an easy out. Tell me no so I can hold it against them forever. So I can keep the image I have of myself as the fearless adventurer, but now I’ll actually have to fucking live it. What the hell.
“Can I say something?” my mother chimes in “I can really say that we’ve raised a man - one we can be proud of.” They pause for a moment. “I think so too.” My father adds.
What have I done for them to be proud of me? I’m just some teenager who believes he’s figured out the world. A bad case of Protagonitus. I haven't lived or achieved anything - All I've done is talk my ass off about plans that’ll most likely fail anyways. Off to study a major with zero prospects - Philosophy. Don’t let me do this - Please don’t let me go. I don’t know what’s out there and I’ll be all alone. I don’t know anything beyond searching for X and the formation of river deltas. Now you’re sending me off alone to China - Fuck! - Please just give me an out. I can’t do this.
5 pairs of socks, 5 underpants, 2 shorts, 2 longs, 4 t-shirts, 2 without any holes, 2 sweaters, a hoodie that doesn't keep warm, hiking shoes, one with intact laces, a lock and key, my mothers old sunglasses, a worn out toothbrush, a half-tube of toothpaste, a shaver, 2 spare razor blades I stole from my dad, lactase and charcoal tablets, a bottle Ya Daeng, and 2 sticks of Ya Dom - Is that everything?
Thai passport, German passport, Revolut card, a notebook, a fuckload of chewed up pencils, my trusty Füller and 5 spare cartridges, a copy of the Communist Manifesto, Siddhartha, The Conquest of Bread, Hearts of Darkness and Infinite Jest with an artificially creased spine - Is that everything?
My Laptop - Charged, Gopro - Charged, Camera - Charged, Phone - I’ll charge that on the train, bluetooth loudspeaker, earbuds, over ear headphones - That has to be everything.
Where’s the Buddha amulet? I’m wearing it.
I have so much stuff, I wish I didn’t. What’s the logic behind travelling with a 1000 euros of equipment on you, just to break it or get it stolen. I wish I could just pack a change of clothes and a toothbrush and set off - But the paranoid brain won’t let me. If I have a Laptop, then why not it’s just another 700 grams. If I have a GoPro then I should bring it - Just in case, no? And If I have my camera with me then I should carry it around, no? Just incase - Just incase - Just incase. I wish I never had the option - never had a camera - never had a GoPro - then there won’t be this Dilemma. No conscience bugging you to take a photo - To exploit the moment for social media content.
Besides, travelling isn’t like it used to be. It’s all about comfort and relaxation, now. The Beatniks that aren't dead are in retirement homes. Now the Vagabonds get their daily itinerary from Tik-Toks. Top 5 Cafes in Saigon, Best Thrift stores in Shang Hai, Best photo spots in the Taklamakan. POV: You’re looking for an ‘authentic’ guesthouse in Tehran - Click my link! Try getting anywhere without Booking.com. Initially a time saver, now a requirement. You can’t imagine travelling any other way. Your first instinct is to scroll tour packages on Tripadvisor, look at the pictures on the website and read the reviews on Google maps. Every experience meticulously planned ahead, based on other people's experiences of other people's experiences of other people - taking the same photos to post on your Instagram story so you can use the location tag. Look at me! I'm here! You know - The place from the photos. Look at me! Video call your friends from the beach, live tweet your rafting adventure - Let nothing sit - Never let anything digest - Always to the next place - The next photo op.
I pack and repack until everything fits. Fold my clothes nicely, that doesn’t work - Maybe try rolling it up like in ROTC. Put the books in the bottom, then lay them flat on the bed. Wrap the camera up in a sock and barley fit everything in there - 20 minutes before I have to leave for the train.
It's time to leave
My parents wanted to send me off - so we drove to the train station together. They send me to my seat and wait outside to wave me off. As we exchanged our last hugs and well wishes, I felt that clump forming in my neck again. The train was late to leave, so for 5 awkward minutes I had to stand in the doorway waving to them, trying my best to keep my composure from disintegrating. I watched them, watching me, holding my quivering chin - the moment felt like an eternity. Then I left.
I watch their figures turn to silhouettes then to distant dots. When I can’t see them anymore, I walk to my seat for that liberating Cry. I was allowed to cry now since I was moving out - One of the few events where boys are allowed to cry. It’s dog death, break ups and graduation. Even when a parent dies they tell you to ‘Stay strong - Power though.’ What I’d give for a hug now but I'm alone. Those are the moments when boys are allowed to shed a single tear whilst looking off into the distance, inhaling once from a cigarette. I don’t have any cigarettes on me and the tears aren't coming out anymore. I missed my moment and now that clump will stay in my neck eagerly waiting to return the moment anything bad happens. So I can flip out disproportionately, after dropping a cup of noodles on the floor. Boys aren’t allowed to cry - we are only allowed to be angry or stop bitching - no one cares! I sit by the window, watching the city turn to fields turn to jungle, putting on some music to try and pull that Cry out of my throat - but it doesn’t give. I watch the world I knew, the city lights of my grungy teens fade into nothing. All that remains is the familiar smell of a distant forest fire - What I’d give for some rain, right about now.
I make my way to the diner car at around 7. Order myself a coke and chicken curry, and look out at the halo created by the forest fire, somewhere behind the mountain. It’s like the northern lights, but instead a burning orange, painting the twilight a dirty brown. I stuck my head out the window to let the wind flow through my hair, but the smell of smoke was too overwhelming. So I sit back down and sip patiently at the complementary tea, alternating each sip with my ice cold coca cola. The food was serviceable, so I quickly finished it and lay back down, still watching the afterglow of the forest fire, tuning in to the rattle of the train. The smoke, still blowing in from the window, sticking to my skin. Distant villages pass by, as little lights, with the occasional intersection briefly lighting the diner car, a vibrant RED before disappearing, leaving you in the familiar black. The only light in the diner came through the porthole window of the kitchen door. Occasionally a waiter would come through and briefly flash the room with an intense colourless light, blinding my eyes which had adapted to the darkness. The diner closes at midnight, and they kick me out.
When I got back to my car, all the seats had been converted to beds, and everyone was secluded to their little pods with the curtains drawn shut. I think briefly to call my mother and tell her about the train journey, but it’s too soon - I won’t have anything to say anyway, so I just sit and look out the window. The forest fire was long gone by now. The little lights of the villages and highways were gone - Everything was gone - And I think it’s starting to rain again.
