(no subject)
I returned to Nepal this afternoon, the Stupa was all lit up and the rain fell just like I remember. This is my third August in Nepal, all but one in a row; there was a time when that would have filled me up with glee, but two months back in the West hit me where it hurt. It's not that I'm not looking forward to the rest of my time here--I am, and I know enough now to make sure everything goes as well as it possibly can. But the more I sit with it, the more being here feels like an escape. I don't know what the answers are. I don't really know what I want to do with myself, or where. But there was a part of me that thought simply being here was enough, and that part of me died on August 3rd. Now to sift through the rubble to find the bits I want to keep. In the failing light of day...