A man on a motorbike passes by an old building screaming with graffiti. Mo Chit, Bangkok.
The myth of travel for me was that it would give me a new life. The truth is that it has given me a clearer view of the one I am already living.
I am writing this from Bangkok.
Twenty three years into a nomadic life that once felt like permanent ‘becoming.’
For a long time, I believed that if I moved far enough, something inside me would rearrange. That airports, bus terminals, and train stations were thresholds. That boarding passes carried permission. That somewhere else, I would feel more aligned with the person I was trying to become.
Chatuchak Market. Early morning. Before the consumers arrive.
Movement felt like possibility.
I keep thinking about how returning to Japan this time unsettled me. Not dramatically. Not catastrophically. Just enough.
I kept waiting for recognition. For the version of myself who once loved Japan with a kind of hunger to step forward again. She did not.
The trains still ran precisely. The light still fell cleanly across the streets. The aesthetic restraint that once steadied me was still intact.
But I was not the same woman who needed that steadiness.
When I first lived there, in 2003, I required structure. I needed disciplined beauty. Japan felt like instruction.
Now I am less in need of instruction.
Feeling disillusioned in Tokyo, Japan. Fall, 2025.
Travel did not fail me. It clarified me.
Mobility, after twenty three years, is not reinvention. It is confrontation.
Confrontation with nostalgia. With former selves. With the illusion that geography can absolve you of continuity.
We romanticize starting over because it sounds hopeful. Because it sells tickets. Because it suggests we can outpace our own history.
But no skyline erases you.
Now, back in Bangkok, considering Vietnam not as destiny but as movement, I see this more clearly.
I am not searching for a new life.
I am tracing the shape of the one I have built.
I can’t calculate how long I sometimes stand, waiting for a bird that is buzzing around, to enter my frame. Birds in flight. Something I can relate to.
There is gratitude in that.
Gratitude that disappointment can be information rather than loss. Gratitude that cities act as mirrors. Gratitude that movement sharpens perception rather than promises transformation.
The myth of travel for me was that it would give me a new life. The truth is that it has given me a clearer view of the one I am already living.
And clarity, at this stage, feels steadier than reinvention.
Kurt Cobain was never built for âcontent.â Can you imagine his views on social media?!
He was built for feedbackâamp hiss, a cheap guitar, a room that smelled like unwashed denim and cigarettes, the kind of noise that turns into a confession if you play it loud enough. He didnât do the shiny rock-star thing. He did the opposite: he showed up cracked open, and somehow that honesty became a whole generationâs anthem.
For Gen X, Kurt wasnât a poster. He was a mirror. The shrug that wasnât apathyâit was armor. The sarcasm that was actually sensitivity. The feeling that the world was selling you a script and you were quietly tearing the pages out.
Now Iâm standing in Bangkok looking at his face on a wallâsprayed into permanence in a city that never stops moving. And it hits me how weird and perfect that is. The boy who wanted to disappear keeps reappearing everywhere. Not as nostalgia. As a signal.
Because the thing about Kurt is: the music wasnât just songs. It was permission.
Permission to be unimpressed.
Permission to not fit.
Permission to be loud about being hurt.
Permission to be soft in a hard world.
A mural is a kind of afterlife. Paint instead of pulse. But the message still lands: some people donât fade out. They echo.
ðĐâðĻ @myrtilletibayrenc ð Rose ðđ Hotel ðĻ Bangkok ðđð #thailand First mural I found yesterday as I explored the Silom area. Further research on this mural indicates there was controversy surrounding the original piece (last two photos,) so it was changed to deer ðĶâĶ From artistâs IG page: the original piece with nude men.
I personally wish the first rendition would have remained. Interesting to learn, though, the kind of public art that gets censored hereâĶ
Two guardians. One calm. One furious. Painted to stand watch long after the doors forget who last passed through.
Qin Shubao (left, calmer expression) âĒ A legendary Tang dynasty general âĒ Often painted with a gentler face, thoughtful or composed âĒ Represents loyalty, righteousness, moral strength âĒ Keeps internal harmony â protects whatâs already inside
Yuchi Gong (right, fierce expression) âĒ Another Tang dynasty general, usually paired with Qin Shubao âĒ Painted dark-skinned, wide-eyed, aggressive âĒ Represents physical protection and intimidation âĒ Keeps external threats away
Together, they form a balance: calm + fury · restraint + force · wisdom + violence (only when needed) âļŧ Why theyâre on doors in Bangkok
Bangkokâs Chinese communities (especially in Yaowarat / Talad Noi / Bang Rak) brought this tradition with them: âĒ Painted on temple doors, clan shrines, old shop-houses âĒ Meant to block evil spirits, bad luck, jealousy, and chaos âĒ Doors = spiritual thresholds â guardians are posted there
The fact that these are painted directly on weathered wooden doors (not printed, not restored) tells you: âĒ This is likely old, or at least done in an old-school style âĒ Itâs meant to age, peel, crack â protection that lives in time âļŧ âĒ Mineral-style pigments (reds, greens, golds) âĒ Layered armor textures âĒ Calligraphic patterns embedded in clothing âĒ Faces painted with emotion, not symmetry
This isnât tourist art. Itâs functional spiritual art â meant to work, not just look nice.
