It’s been more than a month since I have been able to record anything, thoughts, sights, sounds, emotions, revelations…that is assuming that I have been experiencing any of the above. Heh heh. The past month has been as eventful as the month prior. Let’s just say that since mid-December life has been in a surrealist state of upheaval and total chaos set against a rich comforting cornflower blue backdrop of joy. I don’t even really know where to begin, what thoughts rank first amongst the ranks of thought ghosts crowding around me, silently begging for attention. A short story perhaps in the making, based on, who knows, experience of a 20-something year old in Hong Kong, a 20-something year old in love, a 20-something year old freaked out and afraid of the future suspended, a unfocused, faded motion picture still taunting her, as if to say, this is what’s to be, this is the next step, all in cloud puff lettering that dissipates with your next exhale.
I don’t want to fall into another session of self-analysis but I can see I’m already knee deep. I think that the main issue I am contending with now is how to be happy in the present without worrying so much about the future. I am always, always too concerned with the next step, the correct next step, that I can barely sense what is around me and enjoy the energy that surrounds me now, energy from being in love, being loved, being with a wonderful person, being with myself, being myself.
I feel nauseous. Those oysters at the Excelsior Hotel brunch/lunch this afternoon did not do me good. Bleah. My neck is sore and itching like a million razors are chipping and flaking away at the dried, inflamed rash that has settled upon my throat, remnants of diving and snorkeling and pernicious plankton. I am about to make myself feel better by sneaking half a crunch minibar into that rashy throat of mine. Ah, forgot to locate myself. Ryan and I are at the Causeway Bay Public Library, on the fourth floor, sitting almost next to each other but not quite, in seats A12 and A10 respectively, with a prickish fool in between us occupying A11. To the right a vast row of basketball courts open up beyond the floor to ceiling windows, chalkboard green and dusty from a myriad of rubber sneaker bottoms. A line of tall nondescript trees beyond that, then an expanse of grassy lawn, most likely made up of that stubbly coarse grass that usually graces football fields, followed by a whirring rim of cement highway before the bay itself waves lazily from one shore to the other, back and forth, deceptively blue from a distance. Whoops, chocolate streaks my right palm for a second before a lick it off, as the crunch bar half goes down the hatch, unnoticed by the busy librarians and library chaperones that patrol the premises. No food or drinks allowed, missy.
I am slow, unfocused, writing about nothing, just writing for the sake of putting words in a row on the screen, words that sound delicious to me, phrases that taste splendid to ears, teasing, taunting touch. I am also not making much sense at all. Nice. Can I blame it on vacation vacancy? Or perhaps the all-purpose PMS excuse will suffice for now. I am tired and I don’t really want to be here. I would much rather be at the Peak, at PCC, plinkering away at my lovely laptop with a nice fat latte steaming at my right. There’s a kid across the thoroughfare to the left that looks like a younger Jay Chao. My face continues to peel with a renewed vengeance. It is so uncomfortable here. Jay Chao looks up every thirty seconds or so, bored from his studies no doubt, perhaps just as uncomfortable as I am, sitting here, no coffee, peeling.
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