The Pigeon Among the Cats

It's peculiar how homecoming can be such a novel experience, when familiar sights seem strange and memory of the foreign familiar.

I've been studying abroad for 5 years now, and although I have been returning to my home city regularly, it pains me to admit that the concept of home is now foreign. This has been particularly true in the past year, when junior year schoolwork and campus job duties occupy almost the entirety of my time. I used to be able to allocate time to reflect, write, and connect with friends back home and around the world, but at a mysterious point in time, it ceased.

The how is simple enough: procrastination, or with slightly more novelty, mismanagement. The when is difficult to pinpoint. As for the why... as the Bard would say, therein lies the rub.

I have a theory.

Getting away from home prevented me from stepping into the Chinese mold I was brainwashed to prepare for. I was exposed to a myriad of issues, subjects, and interests that opened my eyes to the rich library of knowledge and questions around me. Five years ago, I was a young, innocent and admittedly naive and ignorant idealist. I imagined (much like John Lennon) that problems had solutions, the world was scientific and every question leads to an answer; it's easy if you try. Right.

I learned. Slowly.

Fun in early high school years came at a cost I hoped I was able to rectify. I realized that I have an insatiable curiosity, a trait certain to be the root of my "ADD". I discovered my nascent self. I am fascinated by aesthetics, intrigued by theories, and troubled by social issues. I also grew confused. I stumbled into grey areas, wandered aimlessly through spectrums, and got lost in moral striations.

While I circled in marshy waters, my friends at home marched ahead in their paths. When they clearly separated work (an intellectual endeavor) and play (a entertaining pursuit), I attempted to merge intellect with entertainment. At home, I switch back and forth from this new role and the old, trying foolishly to relive my 16-year-old years whilst moving forward. I have become the pigeon among the cats.

I led myself into a frenzied state of paralysis. Insecure, different, and lost. I'm a pink ice statue in a corridor of scurrying commuters, frozen in memory. Peering through the frost, I recognize, but never correct my defects. Where is that helpful passerby with the expertise? Or must I break the ice myself and start anew?