(no subject)
America is cold. My life is cold. It isn't cruel, nor is it ugly. Just cold.
I've gotten a job. Still settling in. Still the new girl. Still adjusting to the smell of bakery and the hum of female forty-something customer. I don't think my co-workers like me, except for a few of them, who seem a little less apprehensive of my newness. I don't really care. It's work. I do it because I have no other choice.
School isn't difficult, but it is time-consuming. But having my time consumed by Marx and Machiavelli and arrows and badminton birdies is far better than having it eaten away by boredom.
Days are long and time is short.
And these days, I still walk alone. [Godinu dana, ljubavi. Jel' ikad me se sjećaš?]
But those who matter are still here, in presence or in mind, either way is good enough for me.
Like I said - America is cold. And more and more, this election-lie, crooked politics on the grandest scale, millions of lives strung up and over and around and through this capitalistic nightmare, it drives me far, far away, back to the Balkans in my dreams, every night, and I'm haunted by the spectres of my own impending expatriotism. How is it that one can feel so much more at home so very far away? Never before has my country looked so dirty to me. And more frightening still, were it to be scrubbed clean of filth, would it still be stained by blood?
Not that elsewhere is utopia. Not that elsewhere has the answers I seek. But this country is cold. So fortunate, so unfeeling. One day, when it all crumbles to shit, finally we might realize how lucky we've been all along.
Someday.
I've gotten a job. Still settling in. Still the new girl. Still adjusting to the smell of bakery and the hum of female forty-something customer. I don't think my co-workers like me, except for a few of them, who seem a little less apprehensive of my newness. I don't really care. It's work. I do it because I have no other choice.
School isn't difficult, but it is time-consuming. But having my time consumed by Marx and Machiavelli and arrows and badminton birdies is far better than having it eaten away by boredom.
Days are long and time is short.
And these days, I still walk alone. [Godinu dana, ljubavi. Jel' ikad me se sjećaš?]
But those who matter are still here, in presence or in mind, either way is good enough for me.
Like I said - America is cold. And more and more, this election-lie, crooked politics on the grandest scale, millions of lives strung up and over and around and through this capitalistic nightmare, it drives me far, far away, back to the Balkans in my dreams, every night, and I'm haunted by the spectres of my own impending expatriotism. How is it that one can feel so much more at home so very far away? Never before has my country looked so dirty to me. And more frightening still, were it to be scrubbed clean of filth, would it still be stained by blood?
Not that elsewhere is utopia. Not that elsewhere has the answers I seek. But this country is cold. So fortunate, so unfeeling. One day, when it all crumbles to shit, finally we might realize how lucky we've been all along.
Someday.