There is a sad place in my heart. Its a dusty dank corner with water dripping from the ceiling, and filled with a fog that you can barely see through.

Its not a place that I visit often, but occasionally that corner sucks me in. Sometimes its when I see someone, sometimes its when I have a bad performance, sometimes its when someone hurts my feelings. But most of the time, its when I am scared and worried.

Scared and worried about what will happen. Scared and worried of what others think of me. Scared and worried that I will lose close ones.

I hate that corner.

It takes so much energy to get myself out of there.

And then I see those around me that are happy to sit there and wallow. They believe they cannot do anything to escape. No one can help them through the blinding fog.


This powerlessness is scary.

This childish feeling of loneliness in the face of things that are within my control, within my understanding.

Its boredom isn’t it?

Cold air wraps around my exposed skin, pulling at my toes, my neck, my ankles.
I am waiting for something that I know will not come now.

There are books lying, closed, beside my arm. They will not be opened tonight.
I wait for sleep to come, at eleven. Somehow I have made it this far, doing nothing.

It is not silence, not a vacuum, not sadness.
It is a buzzing in the ears, a ringing in the ears, a humming in the heart, counting the blinks that happen, feeling the blinks, the sensation in and around my eyelids.
It is a slight frown in between the eyebrows, barely there, barely visible.
Its tight. The heart, the face, the frown, the skin, the muscles, the breath.

Do something for the sake of doing. To move, to be purposeful, in a life that will end in stillness, bringing nothing with it into wherever.

What is purposeful, meaningful, to whom?

Why did God put me here, not in London, not away from the rest of the people, but in time? In such long, dragged-out time?

How will this emotion that I do not know how to describe yet transform me?

This slight frown, slight quickening of breath, heightening of senses, numbness in the head?

Will it transform me? Is this a lesson on purposelessness/purpose? There is no purpose which is not given by humans. A journey that has an end has value because it is shared with others so one can experience more than one journey in one journey’s time? If it is not shared does it have value? If something has value, that value is our reasoning for taking that journey?


It hums, the space and time around me, in me, through me, around me.

Why him?

I don’t know…

….. maybe because… he’s more broken?

Broken? And you want to fix him?

Not fix… just… be with him, so that he knows its okay… to be broken.
He doesn’t have to fix it, face it, or all that if he doesn’t want to.
I’ll just be here, even if he doesn’t need me to do anything to help.

I just want him to know, he is loved, and not everyone leaves, at least I won’t.

I want to be his rock, his shelter.

And amidst that warmth, that security, he might accept the empty parts of himself that have broken off. Not fill them up, not to explore the holes, just to live with them, and appreciate the unique shape that he is because of them.

Tonight the city lights make me feel sick.

Looking at them from afar, from the top of a hill, the gleaming rows of orange lights… they look disgusting.

I don’t want to travel to Beijing. I don’t want to go through the airports. I don’t want to take the subway alone. I don’t want to go into a place just to sleep.

I don’t want to walk on the dirty streets. I don’t want to listen to noisy people and cars.

I don’t want to think and feel dumb for not being able to think of better ideas.

I want to break my head open, feel my skull crack, my brain matter oozing out through the holes, letting out all the pent up air and pressure.

I want to slowly push a short, sharp knife into my 太陽穴, feeling the sharp sourness of pain as it slices through my skin, pushes through muscle, hits my hard skull.

I want to bang my forehead hard onto the floor, hit the sides of my head on the walls, and then fall backward onto the back of my head, repeatedly, repeatedly, repeatedly.

I want to get knocked down by a car, break a few limbs, shatter a few bones, suffer some kind of concussion.

I want to fall into a coma for years, crying in limbo seemingly for forever.

I want to overwhelm all my senses, running or dancing till I collapse, till I can think of nothing but overload overload overload.

I want to sweat and cry at the same time until I pass out.

I want release, just any kind of release.

Release from the pressure, release from the aloneness, release from the fear, release from the anxiety, release from everything I’m doing to hold myself back.

I want release from myself.

Written on a plane

Acknowledge, embrace, experience, and then let go.

Its the letting go that we have the most trouble with isn’t it?

When something becomes a memory, becomes distance, desire comes in.
And sometimes that desire is so strong that its painful, paralysing. It takes your rationality away.

I can’t believe how helpless I felt, how much holding my tears in became physically painful.
I needed to do something, anything to alleviate it, even if I didn’t know how, or what to do.

It is then that all these crazy ideas flash through my mind, and I seriously consider carrying them out.
And then, after a nap, I realise the tension is gone.

My tummy has stopped clenching, my chest is light once more.

Maybe it is experience, cope, acknowledge, and then the embrace comes when you can let go, or when you’ve already moved on and are only coming back to remember it as a distant memory.

Riding on a motorbike, wind whipping my face, hands and legs warm.
The softness of a 饅頭.
王菲, 夢中人,匆匆那年,天空.

A total sensorial experience. I must remember. I must let go. I must embrace.