That's the worst part of an émigré's life. During the day you are fine and normal -- these are nights when the past comes to get you. There was a period when I saw my parent every every every night. I woke up crying. I tried different ways to suppress tears, nothing worked, so finally I gave up and stopped to pay attention. What difference does it make if you cry or not.

One dream was particularly vivid. They came home after shopping, probably, I hug my mother and I felt her cheek -- it was cold. It was so real and detailed sensation, I am sure the real thing was hidden somewhere in my memory, and my memory served it just fine. Thanks.

And here is the difference between an émigré and an exile. As an émigré you are free to visit your country and to make sure your dreams are a mirage. The home you dreamed of doesn't exist. Your memory played a joke on you. It's not my personal aberration, lots of my fellow emigrants had the same experience. You go "home" only to find that there is no such thing any more. Then you count days when you can go back. Exiles are denied such experience, and they create legends. How the native land is much much much better than the current shelter. I am nor sure what is better: an illusion or an absence of it.

When I left my city I cried. My mother did not. An iron woman, she always was. I am reluctant to visit home since then, I just don't want to go through all this again. I am not a stone yet.

Ihath wrote:

“I want my life to be boring; I want my life to get into a rut.” I told my dad when I moved from Israel to Vancouver. All this traveling around the world, learning new languages and discovering new cultures seems all interesting and glamorous; few people realize the toll it takes on your emotions and psyche. I swore off adventures. I swore off interesting. I wanted dull, I wanted gray, I wanted ordinary. I wanted average. I am going to become the most boring person on earth. I am gonna buy a boring house with a boring backyard. I am gonna buy the most boring family sedan for a car and I am gonna get a boring job. Preferably in an office where I just push paper around aimlessly. Even my food will be boring, I will eat boring meat and potato dishes. No interesting people allowed into my life. If you are the least bit interesting then please don’t talk to me. If there is a small smudge of excitement happening somewhere then please be sure to exclude me from it. That was my objective on September of 2000.

Sister. :( One night I had a dream. It was several years ago. I was like in Peru, or in some other Latin country. It was a big room I was living in, not a living room, it was either an abandoned church or something else. The walls were white, whitewashed. Not much furniture, if any. I felt so out of place and lonely, I knew I left all people I love in Russia, and I felt exhausted. "When will I find home at last" was the only feeling I had in that dream, and it was so sharp. I never had this feeling so intense when I was awake.