Findings are interesting things.
Whether they’re entirely new by nature, or whether they’re hidden treasures from the past. Whether they’re ones that make you wish for an invisible cloak, or whether they elate your poor, poor heart.
Whether they’re discoveries, sightings, or realisations, you’ll appreciate them all the same at the end. Now I sound like an old lady, but…
They’re really precious things, they are.
An obsession is the perfect distraction - take out your measuring cups, count your stirrings, and time your moment of waiting. If only I had a guidebook for what I have to deal with you, I think I'd be pretty good at it. But the things is, there's never going to be one.
So please don't mind my confusion. I'll bake you the perfect cake in the meantime.
Bear with me.
Hong Kong, 17 January - 3 February, 2011.
The Train
If an everyday commute is just like this, I would play it on repeat, again and again. Beyond the glass is the uneven terrain, glowing in the blue mist of winter. Behind my back, the sea stretches endlessly, seemingly calm in the bone-chilling wind.
The Apartment
The tip of my nose is almost touching the window, and beyond the balcony are the terminals. Airline terminals. And the runways. Airplane runways. And the countless planes, zooming into the sky, somehow silent from such a close distance.
The Airport
Squinting into the blinding afternoon sun, I wonder if they’re home yet. The next thing I know - a train wreck. A muddle of thoughts, memories, visions. Ones I intend to keep, and to live for, for the feeling hasn’t changed.
I’m still in love.
When you’re locked in your own head, I’m free to roam the green, green grass. Or wherever I want to be. Constraint is what you live for, for you do not know any other way, or chose to ignore.
When you’re locked in your own head, I’ll look through your window, and laugh.
If crying is a sign of weakness, than I am undoubtedly weak, and so are the people of the world. When your tears are frozen, and your eyes hurt, and your hands tremble, and your head ache, unbearably, you’ll wish you could sob, weep, cry. Just like me.
Just like the rest of the world.
The world is cold, but I can be colder.
But I’m not proud of that, unlike you. You strive knowing that you’re distant, you’re condescending, you’re cold. I do not. I live better, and happier, outside the igloo that was once my home.
I hope your ego will devour you whole, someday.
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