Yangon Suffocation

Burma. Bigotry. Bling.

Stateless suffering. Suffocation. Scorching March heat with a very liberal touch of humidity. The ultimate lack of adventure in being stuck at home city in early twenties. I’m not even 25 yet. Shouldn’t I be out there? Backpacking down to Patagonia and eating desserts in Mendoza? Cooking lessons, zip lines and random, eclectic things one does when one is young. Family obligations. Professional responsibilities. Career advancement. With a capital C. I miss the summer concerts at Prospect Park. Picnics. Pear sandwiches with melted cheese that’s not blue. Cooking mishaps. Being fed by roommates. Even the crazy lines at Trader Joe’s. That one time someone threatened me with a gun in an NYC subway. Lake Norman. Summit Coffee. Flowers received at Farmers Market. My summer-y ice-cream and your RC Cola with Moon Pie. Walks taken along the woods till cuddly movie nights triumphed the will to last till 2AM readings. Happy near anniversary? I’m sorry for your time. You just read a long list without meaning to you. This post holds absolutely no purpose either. Just desultory outgrowths of a life with too many intentions. Yangon always lures me back in. Lovers sacrificed, friendships missed, choices made. Things I do for this city? For this. For little moments of exploration within its limitations. This hybrid self. Strolling. Strutting. Running. Settling? Soaking up the city. Till I don’t want to anymore.

That is the plan.

Another secret nook in Yangon
Railway Station
A moment to stop and wonder
Nooks and crannies

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