the beginning of 2011 and the end of winter were the hardest times of the year. instability, anger, loneliness, more anger, disappointment and simply the feeling of a broken heart were what I used to wake up with each morning. before I even opened my eyes, I felt miserable. regular sleepless nights and the unfortunate connection to the red district established their roots around this time. I wrote about prince edward boy and then I actually met him. we’ve been close every since. he keeps leaving and returning and every single time I deal with the same pathos. in march, reading patti smith’s just kids changed my life. I still pick up the book every once in a while, just flipping through pages and reading passages that are relevant to me. things seemed be getting better but that was a delusion. I’d make one step forward, two steps backwards. I thought about the australian too much and still hoped there was a chance to go back to where we were. sometime mid-spring I gave up on loving the first love. that was a big change in my life and I had no idea what to fill the emptiness with. (apart from strangers.)
I purchased my first dslr camera and have been carrying it around everywhere ever since. (well, I wish this was entirely true but I do carry it around quite often.) the rain season started. I celebrated my twentieth birthday. filmmaker became a permanent part of my life; I met new people, I left the old ones behind. or so was I trying to do. still am. spring turned into summer with easiness that I hadn’t expected because I used to despise summer. many of the nights were spent on peel street and our small corner of the red district. lots of chinese lessons, lots of work, lots of hangovers. I started a different job, got a few small articles published. but otherwise I was dealing with a crisis as a writer. the middle of the summer brought new individuals into my life. then he left again. I kept myself busy in order to take mind off in a different direction. I wrote letters but published only a few of them. during one of the hot summer nights I befriended the french boy. I held out my hand to introduce myself but he kissed me. mademoiselle, he said. after that night different colors and dreams were on my mind. I realized I’d been wrong planning everything the way I have until that moment. I decided to make changes. many changes.
at the end of the summer I went home for the first time in two years. I started writing my own version of on the road but I never had the chance to finish it. my time in prague was delightful but being back home incredible. my favorite month of september was about swimming across the bay, sitting on my terrace drinking wine and writing. it was about sunrises and sunsets. september is my favorite. I met with my old friends, dining on the riviera of a little town on the dalmatian coast. weeks went by fast but even the last days of september were warm enough to swim. my last sight of the sea, I was on a bus en route to my place of birth. autumn rolled out before my eyes as we drove further into countryside. forrests, mountains, dryland. changing license plates, yellow highway lines, blue cloudless sky. between croatia, bosnia, slovenia, slovakia and then again czech republic, I spent a few weeks off the grid whilst taking buses and trains across eastern europe. I didn’t write a lot but memories have remained with me. I decided to focus on the living, not the recording. five thousand photographs to document three months. it seemed like a lot and I still haven’t edited all of them. november meant cooler but nicer days. I went back to filmmaker’s ghetto. only then I realized how much I actually missed him while I was away. coming a full circle now because winter is under way, although hong kong cannot compete with its twenty degrees december days. I have been quiet lately, only because I have been saving myself for some other stories on my mind. different opportunities, perhaps.
I am slowly beginning to sign off on twenty eleven. mixed thoughts and feelings. everything has blurred into one big chaotic mess. twelve months, three hundred sixty five days seem like nothing. just a blink of an eye, a click of my shutter or a flick of a lighter. burning candles and running water. and new year will begin with a pop of a champagne bottle. fleeting moments of undefined emotions. each ending is exactly the same. counting my mistakes, counting all the words I’ve said and all the wordsthat I regret, counting the missed chances and unreturned smiles. all the phone calls I did not pick up and all the messages I ignored that could have changed the course of my life. I keep thinking about what the french boy once told me: by yourself is not enough. you will see, by yourself is not enough. I laughed at him back then because being my own everything is how I chose to be in order to preserve the last bits of sanity I still possess. I thought that not being anybody’s anything would make me the happiest. but maybe I am wrong. maybe I am so fucking wrong. I guess, twenty twelve will show me.
and kick my ass.