Into another mirror-world morning.
Warning: excessively personal, not game-related. Turn back now.
I’m in a hotel room in a hotel I’ve stayed in 5 times before, each time in a different but identical room, distinguished only by the mountains or skyline or the side of the courtyard you see when pulling back the (anonymous, effective) curtains. Tomorrow I will drive across a border to work, and in the evening return to this room and this hotel. In three days I will return to the country where I live. None of these places are the land of my passport, a place I have consciously, deliberately, turned my back on.
Today I am rightfully here. In two weeks I will be a guest on sufferance. At the end of the year, I will have the right to stay in the land where I live, for life, maybe. I will have to apply for permission. It will be granted, we are assured.
In two months I visit the land of my birth, my family and parents on the other side of the rupture. We cannot, and do not, discuss the division, the scar. My brother mentions it as if it were a football result, with rightful winners and losers and a just scoreline. My anger is so close, so near to the skin, and so I blandly change the subject and ask about the cat, or the latest book.
I fear that I will be homesick and my choice was wrong. I fear that I will not recognise it as the home I left, and I have nowhere to return to.
In two years (or three, or five, or six - the land where I live is a land of rules, and the rules have many clauses), I can apply for a better degree of permission. Eventually even to be a citizen of this mirror-republic, if I decide, a step that then will require me to consciously and deliberately renounce the land of my birth and passport. Can I? Could you?
I wish my country (which country?) well. I wish my country ill, that it suffers in full measure the warned-of consequences, that in arrogance and contempt it dismissed. I do not wish this on anyone. I wish it on the deserving only. I resent feeling this way. I resent the loss of belief and discovering that illusions were illusory. I resent the confusion. I resent being asked about the rupture, whether in well-meant pity or as a disbelieving joke.
I humorously roll my eyes at the well-meant question, and joke about the unnecessary paperwork it’ll cause me. What else can I do?
This is not the post I set out write. I was going to write something light-hearted, about the strange Gibsonian world I find myself in, note wryly a few differences between Here and There, perhaps ask for advice from you, international and cosmopolitan bunch that you are.
The only reassurance, I guess, is that it’s not just me.