an american expat in america

i left this blog of mine early into my time in korea. with each passing day, words grew like little baby teeth that kept falling out of my mouth and began to cut my tongue. at some point, i had no idea what language i was speaking anymore. wait, actually, i had no idea how to write the language i was speaking by that point. words had all but broken down and reformed themselves into new shapes, colors, sounds, and smells. the way i thought i felt about words was familiar, but everything else was foreign, speaking though me in ways i might be fortunate enough to dream about. so, i left this blog very quickly and quietly to begin speaking perhaps, noetically?
is it true that once you go ghost, you can never return, or you are ever caught-up in an endless cycle of returning?
there are no stages for my culture shock; it's a drawn-out, daily electrocution. at the intersection of many moments, i enjoy the general splendor of little miscommunications that cause friction or elation (but that has nothing to do with being american, and here i pause), but then that glistens away and i am left with an deep undercurrent of disturbance that i can only give a few words to. those few words are usually in the realm of, "is this home?" "this is not home." "this looks familiar, but it doesn't feel familiar." while looking for an apartment recently, i found that i wanted to live in hayes valley or pacific heights or the inner sunset, and yet, after several sobering walks through these neighborhoods, i found i only felt a sense of home that was really nostalgia for a past comfort of what was settled to me in my world as only my childhood and living back in california again, my home state, could. the more i walked, the more i encountered old snapshots of the me i was and the me i was trying to become wherever i went. home was omnipresent and frankly, getting a little crowded. but at some point, an unfounded fear washed over me, whispering or perhaps yelling to remind me of the one thing i wanted to forget because i was "home," but it surfaced anyway. home lives only in my imagination. for as many homes that i've made into a home, romanticizing home comes too easily and too often. everywhere i look now something can be home, and that is what's scaring me. if i feel like i belong or can belong anywhere in the place where i want to feel settled, i don't know where that leaves me. most days, i wander through the hours like a ghost searching for a home it cannot attain. the strangest thing about this expat experience of mine (if i may at least categorize it as such), is that this fear, these feelings, do not want to fall into the category of good or bad.
many people told me that when they arrived back home from their time in korea that their time in korea felt like a dream, and they were now waking up to pick up where they left off however many years ago when they left. if korea is a dream, then it is a dream that is clutching onto my waking life here in america. i cannot seem to step fully into a life here. something is holding onto me but is giving me no words to hear it by. my mind is now re-adjusting to the language it once knew and exercised itself by on a daily, routinal basis, so it may be too busy to hear the words that this otherness is holding me to anyway. i guess an unlimited vat of time, of no prejudices, and self-kindness is needed- that's how i'll bandage it up for now and bring myself into keeping.