As I said to friend the other day,
the more I travel, the less I know where I am. I woke up in the middle of the
night yesterday and it took me a long time before I could remember that I was
back in Taipei , sleeping in my bed, in my very own room. My mind knows for a fact
where I am, what I do, but it feels like the connection between my mind and
myself is lost sometime. What if what I know and see is just an illusion and
that the other dimension is slowly starting to make itself known to me?
Perhaps I am getting tired of
playing that human game, just like when a child realises that the game he’s
been taking part is just too silly and leaves.
Much as I love Paris , I had reached my limits: one and a
half month. My father said told me on the phone that my mother wept after my
brother and I left. We had spent a lovely afternoon, the four of us again
reunited, just like it used to be, and certainly that must have reawakened some
deep memories of golden time in my mother.
“Please tell her that you’re not
going anywhere” my father pleaded. That was a bad idea. If I did, then she
would think that although I am in Paris , I don’t bother to visit her. She
had said so once already before this last trip. I was sitting outside on a
bench near the Confucius Temple with my laptop, making one last
call before taking the plane the following day. What she said startled me. If
sometime she gets confused about where I live (Hong Kong? Tokyo ? Taipei ?), she usually knows that I am not
in France . The disease must be progressing slowly and
now her changeable emotional state of mind is dangerously playing with her
memory.
“In three months” I told her. “I
will be back in three months, that’s not a long time”. Will that be of any
comfort when she has no sense of time? “One day is like any other day” she
often likes to say.
Once in the plane, all sense of
longing vanished, as if I had finished playing a scene in a play and getting
ready for the next one. The emotional reality of Paris disappears as soon as I find myself
up in the sky.