This is my home. It’s the place I’ve lived my whole life, and completely what I’m used to. Only occasionally it’s like an overlap picture, like something that is normal also isn’t at the same time. A moment of confusion and disorientation that I watch as it hangs over me for a bit and then moves on.
The streets and traffic lights and cars and highways. The size and shiny colors of the cars, the way they drive inside the white lines, the speed.
My clothes, so many different tshirts and jeans. Why do I have so many jeans?
People wearing short shorts and tank tops, especially packs of middle school girls all dressed the same way. They look like clones of someone I don’t remember.
Showers confuse me too. Hot, high-pressured water, and I can take a long time–so many luxuries, and yet I’m convinced I’m wasting time and water. I know I don’t need any of it; I know I can do just fine with a quick rinse in cold water. I feel good, relaxed, and at the same time guilty and unhappy.
Me. I confuse myself. My reactions to people and materials. Sometimes I’m really quiet and sometimes I can’t stop talking. Sometimes I dwell on Varanasi and other times I push it away. I feel strengthened by my experiences and I’m convinced I should have done something more, different, better. I confuse myself when I do things differently than I used to. I even confuse myself when I’m the same as I’ve always been–sometimes I think I should have changed more.