the sun is setting. it sets too early these days; it's getting to be that time of year where, without a time adjustment soon, life is going to be quite unbearable.
how lost in the world first-generation immigrants are. never ethnic enough, and, in america, never american enough, we're an enigma to everyone except ourselves. both times i was overseas in asia and in europe i saw travelling groups where one person was the odd ethnicity out, and each time i had the near- instinctive reaction: what an oddity that person must be. probably, dark-skinned on the outside (or olive, or yellow), and a shell holding an inside consisting of who knows? any sort of mishmash. their bond with their friends forged with compromise, some part of them forever inaccessible to their chosen family, forever impossible to understand. weeks later i would wonder how i appeared to them. what do tourists think when they see me with my friends? do they feel the same kind of pity? or perhaps only those forever involuntarily expatriated truly know what they see.