Memory believes before knowing remembers.
Belonging is an animal thing. Even a beast that lacks discourse of reason has its own corner of solitude, its own emptiness, its dark tranquility. Less than a cage, for inside a cage there’s yet too much shadow, too much night and sorrow for a creature to own it. Thence a living being is to find itself a scrap of the ground where its den lays and even there it is supposed to curl up, clinging to its own body, craving its own warmth, listening to its own murmuring hunger.
Such is the lonely Umwelt of every living thing. We all live in bubbles, each bubble is a sum of particular, individual modes of perception of the external world. And yes, our bubbles sometimes interfere – and such is at once the joy and the tragedy of our kind.
When a Mongolian nomad feels lost and anxious in a modern city of Ulaanbaatar where he is forced to live by the changing structure of society, he is ever longing for the steppe of his kin. For the place of a man is where his folks lay. You don’t need to know it, suffice that the spirits of your long-gone grandparents dwell in those grounds, it is where your heart shall be longing. For when you are alone and astray, depressed, devoid of hope, the spirits of your Heimat will enforce you and fill your heart with strength.
Thus I come back to my homeland. To these lingering streets that run for more than ten years. These parks and lonely alleys, shelters for love, these enchanted altars of our first kisses. It all deserves more than one chant, a novel, one day, for I know that my Combray, my Macondo, my downtown muse can only find a rightful poet in me – a legitimate son, a Bellerophontes to slay the chimeras of retro-hallucination, to forecast the unspelled, to unshadow the past, to preserve the forgotten, sublime and epic.
One day, though not yet, the muse will sing.