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You, too, are getting jaded. You meet travelers everyday. You strike up easy conversations. It doesn't mean anything. Just killing time. Or gleaning information. It gets easier each time--you have a retinue of questions, a retinue of answers. The only one you can't figure out is your profession. Sometimes you say you are unemployed, with a laugh, but then it sounds too mysterious, and afterwards their eyes are full of question marks. Actually, it doesn't matter what you say, as long as you say something. A job doesn't define you out here. You are only where you've been and where you're going. Or where you hail from. Everyone assumes your job is just what you do to earn money to travel. Unless they're young, in grad school, haven't worked much yet and think they will like it. It's a long journey to find out you don't--but a different kind of journey.

When you think of going back home for good your stomach seizes up with that distantly familiar ache. You realize this is stress, and you give a wry smile because it took some time to recognize. At home is all the comfort in the world, and all the weight, too. You remember what shifty ground your house is built on. You used to believe you'd wait it out, but recently you're not so sure.

Still, you're stronger now, and that came from some kind of love.

Posted by chschen 17:00 Archived in Philippines

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Perhaps you'd be impressed with in how many languages I can say "male prostitute."

by ducks

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