My trek home, the beginning

Of course, in the beginning was the Word. Here are my words. They are just words.

It is obvious that I am an Armenian.

I am almost half a century old, and have lived all these decades with who I am in a strange construct. Like most Armenians born, raised in and living in the Diaspora (actually Diasporas) I am not whole.

I am a PTSD child of the genocide my people suffered. The third generation of such sufferers. My children are the fourth generation.

To overcome this reality, I have created an illusion in which I have lived all my life.

I have created a mythical land of history, of culture, of heros, of ancient places, of stone carvings, of artists, of musicians, of manuscript illuminators, of millenial ancestry. A fantasy land where things are only ancient, wise and inspiring.

People of today, with their living, breathing, praying, cheating, sweaty, dirty, loving, murdering, stealing, building, writing, composing, sitting, standing, shitting, polluting, singing, burying, fighting, cleaning, cooking, childbearing, real lives have no place in it.

Actually, I was not alone in doing this. My teachers, my grandparents, my parents, my relatives, my friends, every one and all have conspired with me to build my place of illusion. Knowing what I know about my people, it was the only way to survive.

Tomorrow, I will be going on a journey to what is left of that illusory place. The day after tomorrow I will face it.

On the map of that landscape in my mind, is written "HIC SVNT DRACONES", here be dragons.

I am hoping that they will be benevolent Chinese dragons.

I don't believe in luck though. I am bracing for the worst.

Strangely, I consider myself an optimist. More proof of my illusory state.