January 30

nostalgia
It's the middle of the night, and once again, I can't sleep. It is months past the rainy season but tonight it rains, and pours, and thunders. The streets are flooded, and I go out on the balcony, hands in the pockets of my brandless track jacket; standing alone in the darkness. There are dim lights on top of the gate guarding the house next door, which reflect in the mucky puddles on the street. The continual beating of the rain creates movement in the water, causing the light to dance across its surface like a kaleidoscope. And something so ugly and foul, like the streets of Phnom Penh, become strangely and enchantingly beautiful. I am restless and discontent and everything sort of feels surreal. I am displeased at such solitude; there is no one to share this with. I read a poem in English my junior year of high school, I don't remember the title or the author, but just that it was about a man who felt his bones detach from one another and float haphazardly in his body, and this is how I feel: out of place and sorts. The whole country is slumbering, and everyone I care about feels hopelessly distant.