I remember once I told a one-night-stand about this. He just shrugged, and told me that the search for belonging never ends, that I can only go along with it.

His reply surprised me; not everyone has the luxury to wax poetic. But I wanted to see how far he could go. I told him, maybe we’re all born travellers, and only some of us are lucky enough to find, at the very least, the feeling of home. He didn’t reply, and left.

Then I’d step out in an Ibanese women garb, which I’d seen before in some civics textbook when I was in secondary school. Always, I’d wake up at that point, and there’d be a rattle in my bones. I got used to it as I grew up. But when I was a kid, ine would be right there if I woke up afraid. It’s always like she knew when I would make that dream. She’d hand me a glass of water. Then she’d stroke my hair, and her soft coos faded into the night only as I returned to sleep.

Then she’d go on to tell me I’ve forgotten about that dream of becoming a shaman again. She’d always talk to me about it as if she was actually inside that dream.

‘Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? You are a vessel of the celestial. You’ve transcended; you can heal!’ ine always says. ‘I’m supposed to tell to heed that dream, that calling. But you already have enough worries weighing on your chest.’

< Previous Next >