It’s Chinese New Year. I rang the gong thrice without conviction. Plus I didn’t know you had to wish. What folly.
patience for wishes
It’s Chinese New Year. I spent the day volunteering for the temple. But I can’t erase this clingy feeling that I had been a disappointment to myself today. Things didn’t go as planned. I was there but not in spirit. And there was money involved. I didn’t say all the right words. And I think I didn’t really give it my best shot. I just floated uncomfortably without a sense of fulfillment. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t know the sense of what I was doing. I didn’t know.
Sir Joe gave me a ride home. I’m really grateful for all the good people around who still gives me reason to miss this plane should I decide to self-destruct. And also that smart ass chic Giselle who, I think, is generally wise at life.
I had coffee with myself at Mcdo. This is the way I revisit the pre-M era. The nostalgic feeling of freedom and misdirection. Coffee. Smoke. Book. I thought that was perfect. I still do.
While I was at Henry Bech, the store lights played and fluttered until the whole street succumbed into darkness. Only the cars provided the illumination that made this photo wonderful.
I like it when it goes brownout. Because the city suddenly becomes romantic. And people begin to notice the stars. I walked home dreamily, sauntering the dark streets while beaming at the skies.
I can’t write about Chinese New Year. My heart wasn’t there. It was somewhere else, searching for meaning which seemed as elusive to me as my own genuine smile.