We see this clearly, this human fabric of desolation, of loneliness, of loves, of loves lost, of diasporic loss.
There are many images, that telltale signs of a collective mirage.
That mirage is social and political.
That mirage is also economically grounded and ideationally-charged, as if this human fabric itself is some kind of a sacred shroud, lost and then found, found and then lost, and then left to the mercies of fate.
Scattered like feathers, like seeds from the wild, like birds without a place to go homing to, the people in the Diaspora have nothing in terms of connection.
The mind is empty, like an empty Russian doll or Chinese box, one small replica of the big one, an exact copy of the other.
In the United States, we can easily account two kinds.
First, those who know how is it to be an im/migrant, and two, how to become a mask in this game of an immigrant carnival, with the masks and roles and settings, and the language twisted to create new realities.
We can only dream of the time of coming home here in migrant land.
That dream is the only choice that makes us see meaning even when there is none.
You say, there is wisdom greater than the wisdom that I claim I have.
And so you begin to count the number of people who have left your hometown.
A. S. Agcaoili
June 12, 2006