Kipilefti

This is the coldest part of the year, but it doesn’t seem as cold as it was last year. It doesn’t seem as anything as it was last year, really–it rained less (or so I thought); I’m less afraid of teaching, but less motivated too (as if that were possible); I keep more to myself, mostly making excuses to stay home instead of traveling. It doesn’t feel new anymore, doesn’t feel exciting. I suppose it’s just part of adjusting to the culture but sometimes I wish I hadn’t adjusted quite this well.

In the beginning there was always something to say, something noteworthy. Words flowed from my fingers like rivers, words of e-mails, blog posts. Now, like the water in the tap, the words come only sporadically. Sometimes they don’t come at all for days, weeks.

It’s all the same as it was when I got here, of course; it’s just become unexceptionable. Every day I walk out of the house, greeted by a chill wind or a warm breeze that seems as though it should smell of wisteria. There would have been a time when that would have been something to write about, something to tell. Now it’s just where I live. Experience something every day and you gradually develop an immunity to the sunset light on the mountains, the regal yet incredibly annoying black-and-white crows, the early-morning mist. And even though it’s all still there, I feel as though I’ve lost something.