New York

The continuous dialogue in my head has been between New York and Thailand and deciding which one to be in. In New York, there is English. The English language is "home" (Pico Iyer). My deeper thoughts can be conveyed to whomever I may choose to reveal them to -- a novelty I have missed.

Thailand to me is a place of solitude, focus, and isolation. I can sit in a safe place and read for hours and never feel a need to speak. But often the craving for an outlet eats at me -- the expression of concepts too abstract for me to speak in Thai and too complicated for me to paint. For my mind, it is harder to be there -- the moments of distraction as obvious as streaks of red paint on white paper. I am unable to escape my own weaknesses and so, push on, trying to reel in my own attention.

Time in New York is spent trying to reel in the even momentary attention of others. Maybe its a city-wide affliction -- we are all perpetually sizing one another up. As a good friend mentioned, New Yorkers are constantly forced to choose one option from an infinite palate of where to eat, what to do, what to wear, who to talk to, who to drink with, and even, who to have sex with. New York is a tease -- its erratic ego-stroking parallels the affections of an abusive husband. And this is just one of many possible addictions one could choose to indulge.

In New York, my ego is very awake and inconsistently pleased with itself. It always craves more.

The practical choice is to return to Thailand and finish what I've started. The sexy choice is of course, to stay here, give up, and allow the cheap thrills of America to keep me on the brink of happiness but never quite in it.