Tags: take it with a spoonful of salt


two futures divided by a parapet

I spotted you walking home, six floors down and across the parapet. You were so infinitely small just then. If I held up my thumb and focused hard with the one eye I kept open, I could wipe you away – just like that. But how is it that such a physically small being still does funny big things to my heart?

You stood next to me and said, him again. I said, yes, yes, him again, him always maybe forever. But this time, I feel the corners of my lips pull up and as I flicked off the last of my cigarette and asked you for another, I feel this chuckle threatening to escape from the back of my teeth. Because you’re silly.

It’s always funny how life pans out and it was just that morning that I still dream of your face even though I hardly see you anymore. How many screams does it take to wipe out a memory of a memory? How many lifetimes does it take for someone to run and catch up with another person again? How many universes have to exist just so that pathsn ever cross? For the days where I want to catch up with you, there are also other days that I wish I didn’t have to see you. Today is the former, tomorrow is the latter, and maybe the day after a new permutation.

And sometimes I wonder, would I rather live for a thousand years? Or have ten lives of a hundred years? And if I had ten lives of a hundred years, would it be a clean slate all over again for each life, or would I have the courage to ferverntly catch up with you and the rest of my one-sided memories for the rest of the nine?

The other cigarette doesn’t come as easily from you this time – you wiped the blood away from under my nose with your fingers and told me to stop smoking but as I’ve told you before, you can’t make me do the things I don’t want to do, and you can’t stop me from doing the things I want to do. The truth is, if unforgiveness is the poison that doesn’t kill the other party, but only yourself, then I’m okay with it. I’m okay with it.

Stretching the past into the present

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August in Busan was still summer. I was at the Gwangalli beach alone and for the first time, realised how a vast a beach was and how small we really are.

September in Busan was windy, balmy, and truth to be told, there are some days I cannot remember how it smells, or what it looks like. And on the days when I do, I’m wondering, maybe I’m there and asleep, and actually am dreaming about my life here. Maybe time twisted and bent over backwards to make something happen. I remember my head twisting into the crook of your neck to shield myself from the wind and the sand. But I don’t actually remember the details anymore. It remains to be just a memory that continues to burn at the back of my eyelids, sometimes perhaps so bright that I have to pull my eyes back open to extinguish them.

October in Busan was the annual fireworks festival across Gwangan Bridge. You asked me to go with you. I declined and went with other people. But sandwiched between a million people or so, we were looking up at the same thing. A million people on the goddamn beach - what are the odds of you finding me?

November in Busan was exam time. There had been little time to hang out because you were always cramming and I was always missing and running about in other places trying to soak up as much before I had to leave. “Hey… where are you?” “I’m at XXX. Are you at the library again?” “Yeah. Maybe see you later.” We went to the beach that chilly month and I remember your scarf around my neck a lot that month. I had been very lazy to buy my winter wear. You asked me if I had ever tried eating ice cream in winter before and for the first time in my life, the mix of the cold wind, cold ice cream and cold lips burnt my mouth and subsequently all of my insides as we tried to cling on desperately to the next warmest thing.

December in Busan and the present twists itself into the past like a Möbius strip. Past hellos turn into goodbyes and the goodbyes present themselves as a possibilities of future hellos.

事实是, 时间是线性的。但你怎么解释我们的未来其实就是今日?

Unwrapping the Future on a Saturday Morning.

The other day, you brushed the hair out of my face as I bent over to eat the noodles you cooked. It had been late that Friday night and I was hungry.

“Do you remember how long my hair was when we first knew each other?”
“This exact length.”
“How are you so sure?”
“I am doing the same thing as I did years ago.”
“Then do you remember how long my hair was before I cut it to this?”
“Yes. But only because I never got to touch it.”
“You deserve it.”

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