In-between (mehzdu)

Drifting through the shards of a language, drifting through surroundings you have before only begun to imagine, so far from home that nostalgia is either impossible or so deeply set in as to be un-diagnosable, the feeling of non-existence, of ghostliness sets in. As visible as you are, people try hard to see you here, to see into you. What they manage to see however may have little to do with you. It becomes hard to make an impression of yourself on others unless you can find yourself; and doing that of course depends on others. Even moving around, amidst a din of musical, unintelligible words, and the customs that define us, in a city (helplessly impersonal, furious), can physically feel like an out of body experience. Just as when trying to translate ideas, vodka seems to help, if at least only to obliterate the sense of mediate-ness and throw you into the present. Lost and found in translation.