Momoland

Boston is momoland.

The hipsters on the street smoking weed and shouting, shouting shouting. I am afraid to use the word momoland because people use it for the motherland. Nepal is no momoland. It's a land, yes, and they have momos. So?

We care about people, but it doesn't matter, because nothing matters anymore, when you're not home anymore. That's right. But we still make our momoland work. They may have forever left the motherland, but they will never leave the momoland.

It's time to start from the end, and go back to the beginnings, because without our roots, we die. Disorientation is the loss of east. find east, and you shall find yourself, they say.

It's not true. It's all a lie intended to keep you away from things you truly desire. Home means little, and motherland, fatherland, and foreignland were meaningless terms that actually hold no emotional weight to a lot of people. I know, I know-- it's sad. But momoland matters, and momoland is what we care, what they care, what everyone cares about.

We search for our people. We're joyed when we see someone who looks like us, or someone who understands out tongue. It's a fallacy-- understanding tongues means you were both subjected to the same cultural upbringing. Think of it as bootcamp-buddies. Should they really matter as much as they do?

It's weird, you go away hoping to get away from home, and you realize you were never home. You lose the sure footing of your place, and you begin realizing you never had a place to begin with. Sure, you can go back, and pretend it's your place, but you can do the same damn thing anywhere else. Nothing matters.

Everything becomes a clean slate.

The butterflies flutter and fly, and fly and fly, to foreign lands, spreading their wings, and scents, and pollens. But how much wings can a butterfly spread, really? What's a butterfly, even? Is it a metaphor.

And then it's back to momoland. It's painful. Not of nostalgia--you have to have memories to have nostalgia-- but unnostaligia, the feeling that you should be nostalgic right now, instead of being an objective external observer.

You begin seeing the patterns. You start connecting the dots, understanding more about yourself and other people. You don't matter, but your realization about other people tends to make you sad. That's life, and move move on with that. Next, please.

Maybe you are wrong. Hopelessly, totally absolutely wrong, and everything exist in your head. It's a possibility. You wish you are wrong. Hopelessly, absolutely wrong. You wish.

The hipsters come about, potsmoking, sex-addled, and full of ideas to change the world. They remind you of things. And then you realize you could be right. Maybe I should grow my hair, get a hemp dress, dye my hair, and go sit there with them.

The hipsters are not hippies, yo. They try, they tend, but they don't. Because Hippies have Died. And so  too will Kathmandu, very soon. The momoland that never was.

It begins in Kathmandu. It could end there. It's not going to be pretty, but something is going to happen. The wheels have started turning, the gear mechanism has started doing it's job-- listen closely, you can hear the unoiled hinges creaking slowly, from the weight of damn expectations and socialisation, creaking, creaking. They will move forever, and yet they creak. So it goes.

Maybe then good things will happen. Kathmandu is no momoland. Momoland is where you are.