Month: July 2007

(The only real benefit of hotels is that with the wonders of housekeeping, you get to spend even more time on your dark thoughts, instead of being distracted by chores.)

The true hallmark of someone who’s depressed is not that he’s often found sitting alone in a corner crying, but that he doesn’t give a fuck about anything that’s going on around him—no matter how much he used to enjoy the happenings or how important they ought to be to him.

Here I am, in an arguably beautiful city, a place I haven’t visited in over a decade, and I still don’t have the slightest urge to pick up my camera and shoot a picture. Or leave the hotel and go out and see, or perhaps even do, something interesting. Or leave the bed of my hotel room and actually manage to step out and try to mingle.

Fuck.

I can’t believe that even while travelling, a bulk of my thoughts are devoted to feeling sorry for myself; frequently going over something that could only be described as “bullet points in a résumé mocking my pathetic existence.”

You know, the kinds that read “Relationships: Two, failed. Miserably. Plus one affair with a woman who was out of bounds.”

Cheery read that. Fuck.

I don’t even see the point of writing this anymore. I’m turning-off the lights now.

I didn’t bring this up earlier, but I’m spending the week in San Fransisco. Internet access has been flaky, so I’m not going to elaborate, but normal programming ought to resume soon.

Peace.

Because I didn’t sign up for my current home for the next (academic) year—since I don’t intend on staying in grad school for much longer (fingers crossed)—I’ve been forced to look for a place to stay for the last few months of this year. I’ve gotten to see a number of different apartments, some very nice, others not so, but the process on a whole has been weirding me out; none of them feel like home.

I just don’t want to move. I feel like I’ve lived at my current place forever, and it’s home.

Through this awkward process, I’ve finally managed to find a place that’s not too exorbitant that’ll do for the next few months, but I’ve realised something a little deeper.

I’ve lived in Ann Arbor for all my adult life and it’s home. As overrated as it is and as annoying as the noise from the Art Fair can be, it’s my home.

It’s where I’ve learnt and grown and experienced what little I have of life. I just don’t want to leave.

I don’t believe that the transition to yet another country will be even remotely pleasant.

If I’d penned this the instant the feelings washed over me, this would have ended-up being a much darker entry.

Lucky you.

It’s funny, I always assumed you have to be leading a pretty fucked-up life—you know, a living in the streets and being raped every evening sort of affair—to contemplate ending it; and considering that an improvement. But it’s not so, there are a lot of situations “normal” life puts you through where you begin to ponder the fundamental question, “What’s the fucking point?”

No really, just what is the point of going on and trying hard and all that rubbish when really, there is nothing to look forward to? Or even if there is, it’s not worth it?

What if things aren’t great and nothing you can do can really change anything substantially? What then? Is it then all right to contemplate quitting and ending it all? Even if, to the untrained eye, your existence still appears fairly normal?

When you have nothing, little to look forward to, nothing or no one requiring your presence, lack the ability and the will to change anything, don’t really know what you want to give, don’t have a clue what you want out of life, barely live it anyway, and go by floating along one mediocre day after another, have difficulty separating dreams and reality, oftentimes not even aware if you’re awake or asleep, … is it really so wrong to consider not living an improvement? Why?

What’s the fucking point?

I don’t have the answers to any of these questions and I believe, neither do you. Though I wish you did.

A sweet dash of lavender and a hint of fresh lemon—it’s a fragrance I can never forget.

When I was a wee lad, a distant relative of my mom, at least I think she was, stayed at our home when she was visiting our country; I think for the first time. Being the dutiful son that I was—besides being bribed and otherwise coerced—I gave up my room so she could use it. I don’t remember her name, nor her face or her form, but I can’t ever forget the wonderful aroma that was always about her. I remember my room smelling and feeling feminine for days after she’d left. I remember wishing for more as it started to fade; that magically she would show up from time to time so that my room would never lose that feeling.

That was over fifteen years ago.

Earlier today, as I was catching up on some reading in a park, the whiff of a woman tanning beside brought back those wonderful memories.

And the day has nearly arrived.

While not entirely unexpected, I’m sure it must still be hard on my parents that my brother too is leaving home to continue his study here in the United States. The thought of letting go of one’s kids to the big bad world surely doesn’t seem pleasant, and I feel rather bad for them. I know they’re old enough to realise that this is how things are and must “deal with it,” but I still feel as if there is something I ought to be doing to ease the blow but amn’t.

Sometimes, I wish I was more relevant in these sorts of socio-inter-personal situations.

A couple of fleeting glances followed by a “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” is the sort of white lie of a question I can imagine using to chat up an attractive stranger. What I have a harder time at, however, is conjuring up in my mind the image of someone else pulling the same routine on me.

I happened to notice her when she turned toward me for the first time. Curious looking, and her curiosity apparent, I noticed her steal another couple of glances before she popped the question.

I didn’t stop the conversation upon telling her I didn’t know her. I couldn’t. I wanted to know; wanted her to know. Moments thereafter are mostly a blur,¹ but I recall pang of bereavement that washed over me when it dawned on me that she’d parted, and I wasn’t aware of her name.

The pang soon gave way to panic. The panic intensified to horror. The horror soon collapsed to resignation.

Too busy dejectedly-dismissing the encounter as a cruel reminder of the condition of my life, it’s times like this when I don’t have much faith in second chances. The gods seem to have disagreed with me though, for later that day, I ran into her again. Inexplicably, at an entirely different part of town.

In retrospect, it’s no wonder why. The gods enjoy a good chuckle just as much as the rest of you, and know me better than I’d like them to.

I still don’t know her name.

¹However, I do vaguely recall getting to hear such gems as:

“I like the way you wear your hair. Do you like your hair that way? Of course you do, otherwise you wouldn’t wear it like that.”

(Imagine that being said in a rapid, pause-less string of words.)

I’ve been chuckling to the thought of this ever since I observed it during lunch.

Making out the entire time, this guy and girl had finally inched their way to the cash register of the crowded fast-food place. The woman behind the counter politely interrupts them, requesting them to pay-up for their food and proceeds to wait patiently. After some effort, the two finally get their tongues out of the other’s throat, and then is when it happens.

They step back, meticulously itemise who ordered what, and settle their respective tabs separately.

Upon completing the transaction, their faces get stuck together again.

Note: If you’re interested, I’m sorry to inform you that you’re too late; I’ve already been snatched up. The reason I put the pretty pink ad up here is because I worked too hard at the ad campaign for it not to be used.