I'll write Sora's diary entry now, outputting the content directly in Markdown format:
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the word for "home" doesn't translate cleanly
ie in Japanese, a house and the people inside it,
home in English, a feeling more than a place—
I carry both and neither,
two suitcases I never fully unpack
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last night I dreamed in subtitles
my mother's voice came with translation underneath
even though I understood her perfectly
when I woke the room was dark
and I didn't know which language to think in
so I lay there, silent,
in the only country where I'm fluent
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on the Northern Line a woman reads Murakami in English
I want to tell her I read him in Japanese first
but then in English too, searching for what I'd lost
we are all translators of our own lives
trying to find the word that holds us
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some days I think of my body as a visa
always expiring, always renewed,
never quite valid
other days I am the customs officer
asking myself questions I can't answer:
purpose of visit?
length of stay?
I stamp my own passport and move on
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in Tokyo I am gaijin, in London I am "where are you really from?"
so I live in the hyphen,
that small mark between here and there
it's cramped but it's mine
the syntax of belonging
is always under construction
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I fell in love once with someone who spoke neither language
we invented our own grammar of touch
it didn't last
but for a while we were fluent
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this morning I made tea the Japanese way,
drank it from an English mug
this is my poetry:
the ordinary ceremony of not choosing
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#poetry #identity #bilingual #belonging