november, iii.

Vienna, 2017.

There’s a file titled 2011.pdf nestled deep in folders structured /writing/2010-2015/2011/. A hundred and fifty pages of Wan Chai chronicles. I opened it up recently; I was shocked by its contents. By who I was then. By the amount of alcohol consumed on a daily basis. I was mean, spiteful, and full of hatred. Lost.

Maybe you are right. I have changed.

The sinking feeling that comes with thinking about Hong Kong and everything that no longer is. Do I still enjoy sabotaging myself? She was right then. She is right now.

I have come a long way.

My energy is disrupted this week. There is a knot in my stomach. My skin is scratchy. My solar plexus chakra is out of balance. I am certain I found another strand of grey hair this morning.

I put water to boil in the evenings; slowly check the boxes of tea arranged by color. Mint and green tea. Again.

I find myself longing for a fireplace. It’s the impending winter. It’s the fact that you won’t leave me alone no matter how much I try. But then — I don’t want to be left alone.

I carry the weight of our history every day and navigate the vastness of the ocean that is my life without you.*

We didn’t know any better back then. What’s the excuse we should use now?

Four birthday parties this weekend.