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| as if i'm 16 again, lacking sleep again, getting high on the night, and reveling in lack of a life.
as if i stepped up, stepped forward, stopped, stepped forward again, stopped, stepped backwards twice, turned around, and then sat down, to contemplate where i had ended up. as if i'm not even in between anymore.
as if only part of me can write, and that part is an insomniac that finally fell asleep and stayed that way for a few years to make up for the 3 years prior he had gone without a wink, but then woke up again with a bad hair day, morning breath, and grouchy with a hangover which makes no sense because i don't drink.
as if i'm so unsure what i'm thinking, i can only write in similes because i'm the only thing i'm sure of is that some of what i'm comparing is wrong, so i can write it off as if i'm just trying to be smart, like a 14 year old that thinks himself as wise, or maybe like a 16 year old that doesn't think, or maybe like an 18 year old who thinks himself wise and then stupid for thinking as if wisdom were so easy to come by.
as if i have a growing disdain for periods, because periods are as if things are coming to a close, as if that were a real excuse anyone believed
...
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| there are things to do. there are always things to do, so of course, there are always things to do to distract you. i suppose this is one of them. or is everything else a distraction to this? maybe it doesn't matter much.
let us speak of ambitions. it's always kind of seemed like i've had very few. i'll answer questions about my future easily enough; although i do have to wonder if my lack of ambition in them will hinder my plans at all. maybe that doesn't matter much either... or at least it's something i shouldn't wreck myself with worry about.
once upon a time, one of my ambitions was to write. a simple enough thought. i thought to myself (and still do, really), if i was going to be overflowing in reckless emotion, i might as well figure out how to leave a mark with it. so i tried, as often as theses little streams of emotion spouted from me. the result was often something confusingly coherent with sometimes more or less purpose that it seemed (the reason i write in free verse, i suppose).
anyways. a few months ago, a not as simple thought came to me; quite odd, as it seemed as if it arrived a year or two too late. it's measure of ambition was also something quite foreign: to write a book.
meh.
as much as i'm sure i'm mistaken, i suppose i feel a bit like these little big spouts of emotion i've been put through in the past have formed enough puddles for me to measure off and put into a mind i've created by pen (or keyboard, if you want to get technical). maybe i feel almost coherent enough to write something more than a mess of emotion. it's also questionable as to how far this will actually get; but i suppose i should start. start a beginning of sorts, anyways...i guess i've already started with the girl named Hamlet, the laid back guy, and the boy with a smirk in some previous posts.
so, in all its late night, unmeditated, capitalized lack of glory, i present to you (at least a part of) chapter 1 of (i haven't decided a title yet), the first draft of many (many, many, many). judge me. critique me. i expect and want nothing less. as a preemptive answer, hong kong, because it works, and i'm acquainted with it by means beyond that of a book or the web. this by no means, means any of it is set in an actual place; i'm sure my dear cousin will point out at least a few inaccuracies eventually. whatever.
edit: HAH. it's been almost a year now and this has been sitting here untouched, because that first night, i thought to myself "i'll just go to sleep and write some more tomorrow." well, this time i'll write some more, and post, as unfinished as it is. i think i rather like xanga.
***
Hostels are interesting places. Back home, you'd be hard pressed to find one. Hotels, yeah. Motels, sure. Inns maybe. Bed and breakfasts here and there. For a hostel, you have to look to Europe, or, lucky for me, in a British influenced city like Hong Kong. As potentially shabby as it sounds, I couldn't pass up the simplicity of a clean room and bed for a few dollars a day. They welcome, with open arms, runaways, travelers, and vagabonds alike; anyone looking to stay simply, but comfortably for anywhere between a few days to a few weeks at a time.
The one I've chosen is definitely one lesser known. It occupies just a few rooms on the eighth floor of a tired building in Mong Kok. Lesser known, no doubt, due to its relative unpopularity, related, no doubt, to the fact that the elevator in the building only reaches the fifth floor. For me, though, it's perfect. Cheap, clean, high up, relatively centralized. Getting there would only be half the fun.
As I ride the yellow-lit elevator up alone, I can't help but to feel fairly out of place. I think to myself that this'll be home for some time, at least. My heart just needs some time to catch up. Not that feeling out of place feels too bad, either. I take a deep breath of the metallic, sweet smelling elevator air to get the feeling spread out a bit. I'm out of place... but whatever. Being out of place is only a problem for those that want to fall in place. And who wants to fall in place?
For the sake of breaking rules, I turn around and walk about the elevator a bit. Not that there's much to walk about around. The metal walls look a tint gold from the light, which they reflect dull enough to obscure shapes but not color. The buttons on the side used to have more defined edges, but have since been rounded out. I can tell because the Close Door and 5 buttons are letterless and smooth, Open Door is still a bright and defined circle, as if begging to be pressed. I press it, because I know it won't do anything but give me the satisfying feel of a button being pressed.
The door opens at the 5th floor and I step out. In very short retrospect, it was a pretty long ride for an elevator to the 4th floor, which is called the 5th floor because "four" sounds like "die" in Cantonese. Once again, though, whatever. I lose track of time sometimes. It helps the time pass, I think. | | |
| how great how awesome are You
that we may call you Father
and more
that we may call ourselves sons
that we may call each other brothers
with bonds stronger than blood
and a love that we learn only from You
we are one voice
because You simply are. | | |
| to break,
to shatter,
to fall apart into a million little pieces and lay there for a while as i contemplate why i felt the need to blow up in the first place.
then maybe to be blown away by the slighest breeze
to come up, to fall down to be stirred in a cyclone
until i'm standing up again so i can make my way away from where i started. | | |
| too dark to see ahead,
but bright enough to see you walking next to me
and maybe that's enough
your eyes are on me,
did you know mine are on you?
take my hand so we can close our eyes
and smile
we'll let our feet watch where we're going
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