I Forgot About the World for a While.

That might sound brief, but for me, "a while" comes from my father’s way of measuring time—where what might be, most likely never will be. It’s the modern-day “let’s see” or the more insidious “just as soon as…” syndrome. And now, it’s taken on an even more elusive form—the idea that no reply is a reply.

I hate that saying. In a strange way, it saved me—just like that Cat Stevens song, "Wild World," which carried me through heavy times. And yet, I can’t quite explain why it helped me—only that it did.

I forgot about the world for a reason. Not because I didn’t want to be part of it, but because I needed to survive—just long enough to return before the cycle began again. A cycle that refuses to release me. It has taken on a life of its own, as relentless and consuming as any virus or bacteria known to humankind.

I allowed my heart to be broken a few times in my life, and it’s been painful. But each time, it reminded me that I’m human. My heart is broken again, but I knew it was coming. I allowed it. I opened myself up to the possibility of getting hurt, even deeply. It’s about self-growth. It is to consent to hurt. I’ve stepped back, but I know my aim isn’t perfect. Still, I’m making an honest effort to move on, to heal, and to keep pushing forward.

You see, I am obsessively loyal. It takes a lot to shake my allegiance. Even when we disagree, even when we don’t particularly like each other—loyalty isn’t about friendship or family. True loyalty is something you own, something you consent to, and only you can decide where to place it.

I gave my love freely, and in doing so, I accepted the pain that came with it. I offered my loyalty to something beyond myself, yet somehow, I lost my way. Where did it go? Did my loyalty shift to the self—to selfishness? Freedom, after all, seeks to release me from the constraints of a fixed purpose. But perhaps, in loyalty, there is also growth.

In a sense, I was complicit. My beliefs, my actions, gave them the power to reach me, to unsettle me, to break my heart. I left the gate open. Perhaps they knew exactly how to unravel me—by treating me with deliberate indifference, without consequence, until I despised them enough to want to run. I did not run. I've come to understand that when I’m hurt, it’s because I allowed it in. There was a reason I needed it. Sometimes, I even crave it, as if starving for it, or worse, needing it—it is an addiction.

I had forgotten how the world had forgotten me. In many ways, they were both right and wrong. As for the playing field, it was never truly uneven. I walked away with clarity while they scrambled to reshape the narrative to serve their own agenda—an agenda that conveniently painted them as saviors instead of the adversaries they truly were. 

I've come to realize they were evil, and I was part of an empire built on that same darkness—an empire that bides its time, waiting for the moment when they could erase my existence. And so, they waited. In the end, they achieved what they set out to do. At least, for now.

Yet, any version of events that diverges from mine is a distortion. I am the gatekeeper of truth in this narrative, this unfolding drama of their own making. They constructed this reality, and ultimately, they will contend with the consequences of creating a force beyond their control.

There is no greater power than the one granted to the victim as a shield against the relentless pursuit of vengeance. Taking the path of retaliation would only land me in jail with no financial gain. I must grit my teeth and endure the waiting period in silence,

Without causing unnecessary disruption, while they decide whether I am worthy of a favor from those in power. How they measure that or calibrate the code, I have no clue. 

I actually don't want to know. Why would I want to fill my mind with a paradigm that makes zero sense to my concept of what makes sense? I cannot have those two worlds collide. It will not end well.

If I make the wrong kind of noise, it’s over. There is no judicial recourse for non-citizens in Thailand. Be careful with your actions, and if you do find yourself in trouble, do not trust the system.

Remember, the system here is not designed for non-Thais—that’s why you must stay out of it. Let the officers, courts, and lawyers handle the legal matters. If your case is not criminal, you are not required to be involved, so it's best to stay out of it. However, if it is a criminal case, you must contact your embassy immediately. If it’s a marital dispute, you're done. Don't even bother. Just scan, transfer, and be done. Move on. You have no rights or protection.

If you have a reputation for being loud and reckless, you’re out. But if you're seen as reasonable, cooperative, and mostly agreeable, not only are you in, but you’re also more likely to win—or at least gain favor. In short, stay quiet, pay attention, and listen not just to the words but to the tone.

If people speak to you firmly but with a smile, a nod, and a handshake, it’s a good sign that you're in their favor. However, if they talk about you to others in a sharp, dismissive tone, avoid eye contact, or withhold a handshake, their true thoughts remain a mystery. In that case, you’ll find yourself back in detention, left to sit in silence or tune out the noise—it will be entirely up to you. From that moment on, you’re on your own.

If you're traveling or living abroad, always register with your embassy—unless you're on the run, in which case, it's probably best to stay put. Once things settle down, keep a low profile, respect others, and move forward peacefully.

The world doesn’t need more chaos. If you're a criminal, stay where you are. Stay out of the way. The world is growing tired of criminals; you’ll lose every time. It’s the natural order of life. I am grateful that I am not a criminal.

I forgot about choosing. The insight I’ve come to—whether by luck, effort, or simply asking for it—is mine to hold. I won’t part with it. And that insight is this: I have the power to choose not to choose and understanding that not choosing is still a choice is incredibly freeing. Even in acknowledging this, I’m making a choice not to say much at all. But isn’t it a choice? And isn’t thinking about not choosing also a choice?

At 60, my world feels small, but I find joy in how my small sphere shapes my life. It’s a reminder that I may have more time behind me than ahead of me. But then again, who truly knows when their time is up? It’s a humble thought, perhaps a bit melancholic, but it’s where my mind is at, at the moment.

Now that I’m back in the world, I’m feeling a vitality I haven’t experienced in a long time. I’d forgotten what that energy felt like for a while. And when I say "a while," it’s because of my higher power. I find solace in prayer. There’s something profoundly meaningful in connecting with a force beyond human relationships. 

This connection gives me options when faced with tough decisions—not necessarily about right or wrong, but about finding guidance when uncertainty looms. For me, the Serenity Prayer is more than just a recitation; it's a mantra, a declaration, a stance of resilience against chaos. It shifts my perspective toward clarity and peace—what is known as wisdom.

My higher power resides within me, not outside of me. And now that I’m preparing to leave the world, I feel a clarity I haven’t experienced in a long time. I had forgotten what that energy felt like. But now, I remember.

That might sound like a way of measuring time—where what might not be, most likely will be. It’s the modern-day “maybe” or the more insidious "if you love me…” syndrome. And now, it’s taken on an even more elusive form—the idea that a reply is not a reply but a path toward forgetting about the world for a while