Got sick because the weather changed too fast. Reminds me of New York city and crying myself to sleep with three blankets for ten nights straight, but I couldn’t sleep, because I couldn’t breathe lying down. Crept down the bunk bed in a stranger’s house in the middle of the night, metal steps icy cold, to cry in the bathroom with the faucet running, nose dripping. I cried torrents to the mirror and the frosted windows and my reflection disdainfully looked back. I did not know whether my nose ran from the illness or the crying. I still do not know where the sickness ends and the sadness starts.
When I hurt, I can’t write in metaphors. I want to spit out the details without the bullshit romanticizing. I’m pained constrained contradictory free worried lonely reclusive resigned despondent desperate desolate unbridled untamed unwavering. I want all the adjectives with no prepositions no connectors no nouns. A bundle of nerves and no substance. I feel like shit, alright? I want to throw up all that makes me sick inside but I might hemorrhage. I also want to eat homemade soup, and not throw that up.
This sucks as a piece of writing but some things must be written for the self, not for aesthetics. It’s so easy to look happy and bright and beautiful in photos (though I adore photography) even when I do not feel it (and vice versa). Don silk and painted lids but my interior’s rough. I don’t know where the need to balance out my self-images comes from; just, I must do it. It’s my head telling my body, “It’s okay to feel like your insides and outsides do not match up sometimes. It’s all of you and you are allowed to look that way but feel another way. It’s okay to not want to talk, but still want to express yourself. Who gives a damn what people think - let them think, because you’re being honest (though all of this is also bullshit). Write.”
I’ll try to write something more uplifting when I get better.
Found another similar old draft. My life repeats itself in spirals. My body sheds the skin: sheds everything and nothing at the same time.
Dec 14, 2010
Tried to catch the flurry of snow on my tongue, but looking up only added to my dizziness; boots kicked up the fine layer of dust-like snow as I shivered inside my jacket.
My head is spinning. I miss my mom.
Tưởng như rất gần mà ngờ đâu đã rất xa
Tưởng như rất lạ mà ngờ đâu sao quá quen
People can not magically feel that you miss them, or are thinking of them, or a watching them from afar. You have to tell them.
It’s difficult. I can’t even tell if people think about me at all. I suppose it’s the same for them, so the mutual silence continues.
"I still think of you. I miss you from time to time. Perhaps we will never meet again but I cherish the times we spent together, even if they hurt me.
On the other side of the globe, what are you doing? What is it that you dream of? Whose face do you see first in the morning? Who is it that you miss?”
I want to say.
I want to say, “Please talk to me.” Because if we never speak again, you will be reduced to a memory, and I want to continue knowing you as a person.
diary entry from November 26th 2013
The entry hit me like a bullet: two months since I wrote it, I am thinking the same exact thoughts again. Sometimes major events in my life make me think I’ve grown as a person but then I look back at my old entries and see not much has changed at all. The core remains stubbornly constant. I visualize loneliness as a white, empty space, like an untouched expanse of land after a snowstorm, in the middle of my soul. People come and go and in the wake of their footsteps the next storm comes - though I keep yearning (perhaps selfishly) for people to stay by me, hold my hand through the storm, fight for me, risk for me (say the word and for you I would) - they don’t, and I am torn apart every single time. The storm erases all traces of human presence. And so, remade, the loneliness stays cold, untouched, pristine, glistening. When I look at that part of my soul, I can not tell if I have fundamentally changed as a person at all.
Hold me close when you could leave us alone
Why would you just leave us alone
When we have been close, close
You leave with the tide
And I can’t stop you leaving
I can see it in your eyes
Some things have lost their meaning
The XX - Tides
Thỉnh thoảng khi đang đi trên đường, bỗng nhận thấy trong lòng có môt sự nuối tiếc mơ hồ trỗi dậy khi thấy một gương mặt. Nhỡ đâu người ta sẽ là một người tình hoàn hảo vừa khít với mình hay một người bạn tri kỉ với mình, nếu như mình và họ quen biết nhau?
my city in film
and the embers never fade in my city by the lake
nhân tiện nói về chuyện nhiệt độ
thật ra ở Nhật kể cả những căn nhà cổ tường giấy và căn nhà hiện đại bê tông đều không giữ nhiệt tốt, cũng không có hệ thống sưởi toàn bộ nhà mà toàn dùng lò sưởi ga hoặc điện nhỏ vì đất nước thiếu tài nguyên quá. lạnh hơn VN nhiều nữa khiến tui lúc nào cũng ngồi ôm lò sưởi đặt ở mức thấp nhất cho tiết kiệm, đêm đi ngủ thì tắt đi xong sáng dậy sớm trước nửa tiếng để bật lò sưởi rồi sau đấy mới dậy hẳn. trong nhà mọi thứ cũng đều lạnh tanh (trừ cái bệ xí cũng được sưởi ấm… nghe hơi vô lý tại sao không sưởi nhà mà lại sưởi bệ xí?? tuy nhiên bệ xí sưởi ấm dùng rất sướng)
lạnh và ẩm thì dễ ốm đương nhiên rồi xong ở cái đất nước bé tí này cảm cúm lan truyền rất nhanh và khi cảm cúm thì bị bắt nghỉ hai ngày nên cố gắng giữ gìn. người ta dùng phương pháp quần áo công nghệ cao (ý là heat tech) với cả đeo khẩu trang cả ngày. tui cũng đã mua một hộp 50 chiếc khẩu trang và các gói nóng đem theo người.
ở Nhật không ẩm bằng VN nên có lẽ không độc bằng, nhưng VN học mấy cách làm ấm sẽ tốt. dần dần mọi người cũng dùng lò sưởi nhiều hơn, nhưng cả các cách thủ công nữa. tui sống trong căn phòng tường giấy ở phần nhà 100 năm tuổi và tự học được nhiều cách để làm cho ấm tui hơn. tới giờ chưa ốm về cơ thể, về tinh thần thì hơi (rất) bất bình thường nhưng là vì seasonal affective disorder và sự thiếu ánh sáng mặt trời ở đất nước mặt trời không mọc vào mùa đông
đi làm bài tập tiếp nhé ja mata
20130801 day before I left for Japan
A series of memories about people whose names shall go unmentioned
i. I thought of that time you called me; I had my legs hugged up tight against my chest and the phone cradled to my ear, doubled-decked bus to New York City. You said, you’re the second person I’ve told this to, and I laughed quietly under the cover of everyone’s drowsiness because it was hardly a surprise to me, but I said that it was, anyway. It was a painful time for you.
I think of you when I take the bus here in the mornings. When the bus moves forward and snow drifts backward, my mind goes back to that time. We never talked so much as we did then, even miles apart, now even miles more, I wish I could rewind to that time, but life has gone ahead, and our better places have taken us further away from each other.
ii. I think of you every time I’m sad or overwhelmed with any emotion, it’s really selfish, isn’t it? I miss you so much. But somehow, probably due to our soulmate frequency, even when we haven’t talked for a while, I still feel like you understand all my feelings; when we talk for a really long time, it feels like barely any time has passed. Also, my emotions are really intensified when I’m around you. I feel too much, you unhealthy mof. Man, I don’t even know what to say here, you know that feel?
iii. There were definitely some people who said it was 許せないこと, and it took me the longest time to get over it. Maybe people still think our friendship is shallow but it is important to me. Don’t people become friends because they share interests, but also because of their ability to get over conflicts and make up? Youth is easily roused and easily calmed. “Eighteen. Adults say that it’s an age where we laugh if a leaf tumbles by. But back then, we were more serious than any adult, more intense, and had our strength tested.”
I really want to go to see concerts with you. We’d be two crazy fuckers, and after that, side by side, perhaps half drunk and spilling crumbs everywhere, we could talk about Really Serious Shit™. Or continue our “shallow” talks, it doesn’t matter to me.
iv. I thought of your bike and my bike, side by side, under the streetlights at 2am, at the edge of the road, humid summer air bearing down on us. You were sad and angry and sadder and I couldn’t do anything but look. I’m not really good with comforting; I don’t know why I keep thinking of these sad things. How about this: all the times you came to my house with cake; cross-legged on cool wooden floors, two of us, talking about people and this crazy world.
I think of you when I see all the desserts here. You would like them so much; if you were here we would be out everyday building cavities in our teeth. Life is still kind of crazy but the desserts make up for it. Wait for my present.
v. I keep coming back to one single moment: three people in the late afternoon, dying sunlight glazed and cold on the tiles, me and you leaning against a door frame; you played with my hair a lot. I can never recall the important things, except, maybe, that, somehow, we always seem to laugh about the same things and cry about the same things.
I think of you when I look at the stars. At the top of the mountain where the stars look like pinholes of light leaking from another world beyond the velvet wrap above, and the sad, sleepy city stretched below. Let’s go find aliens and tell them to let us live our lives.