I write my life here...

  Life in middle age spins into the past and weaves the future. I carry the aromas of many people and have transformed into an individual entity. I can no longer separate myself from those whom I met, hugged, and cherished. There is a strange craving to go back to the same classroom where I once was among the tiny girls and was one of them myself. Fundamental realities were once just casual incidents. Death, life, and resurrection never scared me; rather, the scolding of elders was a serious matter. The philosophy of life is incomprehensible a couple of years before your teenage. You cannot sense the touch. You do not yet have language for discomfort that arrives disguised as familiarity. You cannot always tell where the boundary lies between care and violation, between what is given and what is taken. And so much of what unsettles you remains unspoken—not because it disappears, but because you do not yet know how to hold it in words. Some things are absorbed instead. They settle q...