Hanoi. Hong Kong. Taipei. Hanoi. Taipei. Hong Kong. Iran. Bali. Hong Kong. Jeju. Hong Kong. Kathmandu.
Wah. It’s been seven fierce months. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. I’ve never been more comfortable being off the social radar. I’ve never been more determined to rest, play or be lazy. I’ve never been happier just loving and being loved. I’ve never been more at peace with myself and who I’m growing into. I’ve never been more amazed.
There was a documentary I watched about people with memory loss which struck me that it’d be a death sentence to lose one’s memories or the ability to build new ones. Far worse than losing a limb, sight or speech, imagine being in a state of fugue or not being able to imagine the future. This profound consequence of being a lost or lesser person just by losing one’s narrative history left me completely floored.
Supra went home today, armed with soya bean ice cream in hand, a new haircut and defense against Seunggi-stealers. As I walked back in the afternoon drizzle enveloped in sentimental warmth, I told myself that I need to make more trips home to lepak with Atah and Mama, and call the two chikoras more often.
The hours seem to pass so slowly until the beloved blanket monster is home again. Reading, writing and waiting in the light of the genius lamp… Wicked, aight…




