Taking the train to work, i found myself telling my friend. Let's go home, one day, start up a little business, sell groceries or something. It's been a long time since we were home - small town boys remembering cycling to the local provisions shop and around quiet neighbourhoods where time is the dark green leaves of an old mango tree falling, falling.... It feels like yet another different life - we have come a long way, and maybe now, it is time to go home.
I still do love my country, even if they still insist on telling me i'm a pendatang. It makes you at times cynical, at times sad, but I realise, at the end of it, i still do love my country, in a bittersweet, unrequited kind of way.
I guess, now, i just don't expect her to love me back anymore (allow me to lapse, again, into a little moment of cynicism... it is a coward's refuge, i guess when one-should-instead-strive-to-be-Nietsche's-model-of-the-Uebermensch)
Or Kierkegaard's Knight of Faith.
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