I probably woke up from the wrong side of the bed this morning. For some reason, I woke up with an intense feeling of homesickness. It was something I haven’t felt in years.
I felt homesick – but not for Japan, the place I have called home for twelve years now. Instead, I felt homesick for the country of my birth. I woke up and felt rather odd that I was buried beneath layers of clothing and a duvet, instead of roasting in the sweltering heat and waking up to the sound of mosquitoes buzzing near my head. I woke up and felt rather puzzled that the sun was nowhere in sight. And, instead of shouts from early vendors hawking their pan de sal in the wee hours of the morning and the familiar hum of tricycles on the street, I woke up to the noise of cars passing by on the road. I looked out the window and saw the barren trees around and remembered how trees in my country never shed their leaves, ever. How one never has to undergo the cruel, harsh cold of the winter season. How the place is always teeming with life.
I suddenly felt out of place.