Something that was, up until yesterday, but a small cyst of irritation riding in the back of an already crowded mind, has finally manifested itself into what should now be called anger.

"You're really independent, aren't you?" Tomo asked me today; and though I understood the meaning perfectly, and answered, "Yes," he and I both knew that the proper question required a knowledge of English that he didn't quite possess yet.

The correct question would have been worded slightly differently, something along the lines of: "You really don't like to be around other people, do you?" Of course, this language construction only uses the most basic vocabulary, but the way the sentence is built, not the lexicography, is what gives it the proper meaning. It's a negation that not only posits a question, but suggests an answer.

Through what we consider normal use of language, a properly worded question helps to capture the essence of his suspicion that I really hate hanging around exchange students. He had noticed. He wanted an explanation.

It's language like this that can't be taught--so basic, yet so useful--terse bits of bumpy words spat out to the tune of fluent conversation. Of course, it's easy for me to analyze nuggets of English chit-chat for four paragraphs, but Japanese is a completely different story.

I want so badly to have the same ability with Japanese that I have with English: the ability to quickly and concisely express thoughts through nuanced speech. Improving takes time, something that I feel this place has stolen from me, never a free moment.

Hours and hours pass, my eyelids sagging hard against my unshaven face. The effort required to reset those protective sheaths to their standard "open" position is simply too much, as is the effort require to interpret conversation any longer.

How many hours has it been? Listening, speaking, now lying face up on a pink futon in Miki's narrow apartment, my head pointer skyward toward her face, though it remained invisible just a few feet beyond my eyelids--cemented shut 15 minutes prior.

Beauty was not completely hidden, however, because despite my inability to conjure up the strength to continue eye contact, I was still able to listen to the most beautiful music I could imagine, even if I had given up trying to understand it. Three Japanese girls simply talking, communicating in some tiny apartment in a forgotten borough of Tokyo at 4 a.m.

Heaven.

Far away from exchange students, isolated in the most flawless environment I could imagine. My consciousness dangled by a small thread that I played with like some kind of kitten lazily batting it around, fading out of one dream and into another, although I made every effort to remain just alert enough to permit their immaculate voices passage into my ears.

"So you like to go out alone then?"

Not exactly, Tomo, but yes. Each day is an effort to escape the absolutely sluggish English of unmotivated, single-track minded exchange students and their listless, common conversation for more perfect situation, such as four hours at Miki's, where disappearing into the folds of conversation is as easy as letting your mind relax only momentarily.

...and though being understood--and understanding--is an ecstatic feeling, so too is drifting off and just letting syllables, spoken through the most delicate of mouths, tiptoe around one's mind. Please, neverend, I think, please nevernd.

Believe me, I try to extend my days and nights to the place called Neverend, but after five nights with--honestly--little to no sleep, I know that Neverend is hardly a realistic desire. Crashing down into bed from such extreme highs is disappointing. Now I can sleep, but how can I let myself be passed by?

While others sleep, I cook tempure.

While others sleep, I am engaged in a dream.

While others wake and discuss the trivialities of their lives, I search for some kind of escape to Japan, because the dormitory isn't Japan.

"Bu-chan.. Bu-chan, wake up."

"Bu-chan," a simple contraction of the first syllable of my name, "Bu" and the incredibly informal, affectionate suffix, "chan" has become my new moniker, constantly repeated by so many of the girls that I hang around.

It's 8 a.m. and time to shove off for one of those ridiculous, day long group activities where privacy is reduced to an impossibility and the exchange students' shoot incessant annoyances in all directions--especially in mine.

"Bu-chan, wake up."

I'm up, I'm up, well, somewhat. My eyes are nearly frozen shut from last nights inadequate rest which did nothing to replenish my energy--entirely depleted from endless days and nights in sleepless Tokyo. The brash, aggressive morning sunlight barely even tickles my eyes.

Waking was not from dream to dream, but rather to a nightmare full of tiresome Americans, worried little about studies or Japanese conversation. We would go to Hakone to stand in the shadow of Mt. Fuji, but I only wanted to find a sanctuary away from their obnoxious personalities, so that I could truly enjoy the tranquility in peace.

"Yes Tomo, I really have some problems with other exchange students. Is it weird?"

This is when Tomo told a story, about Yuta, the other near-fluent dormitory assistant.

When Yuta first went to Oregon to study English, he knew how to say, "Hello," "Goodbye," and "Fuck you." That was all. He too was part of an exchange program but detested his fellow Japanese travelers with a passion beyond mine. He avoided them. He stuck to himself and Americans only. Now, a year later, I consider his English to be almost flawless.

So after waking into this nightmare, I simply went back to bed. I just slept.

The entire bus ride to Hakone, I slept.

During the small, exchange student party in Hakone, I slept.

...and tonight, while everyone is sleeping, I will be tiptoeing through bits of Japanese grammar, possibly in some tangled urban local, far, far from the karaoke bars and nomihoudais that the exchange students will almost definitely set off for.

I will be with Japanese people, speaking Japanese but listening too, to the honestly indescribably beauty of the female voice, so truly intoxicating and paralyzing that it makes me ache to hear it spoken. So beautiful, they are, so gorgeous.

Back into my dream.