If someone asked me what I was thinking in moving to new york city. I'd say a number of things. All in the tone of supreme dissatisfaction. And if I were close to them, I'd perhaps disclose a secret; that secret having the tone of hope, of perhaps some sort of salvation from myself, from my life.
The past couple of weeks at work has been stressful. Why? you ask. Lots of work, ofcourse!
So many things have been happening. A repetition. When will I get it right? If not the "other"? But no doubt its nice and exciting, warm and fuzzy, pleasurable and measurable. I know it will land me in trouble.
I can't believe its September already, the end of the first week. I'm in my new Chinatown apartment, in my cubbyhole of a room. Maybe this is the way it will be, every 5 months it will repeat. I will sing the same sad song in the end and be ultimately bored, and obsessed.
I walked around the block earlier tonight. Chinatown closes down way too early. I wear newly bought oversized two dollar pink plastic slippers and speak in chinese with the cashier/waiter at 69. He guesses my age to be around 19. I laugh. I was much sturdier then. Less sick in the brain, lighter in the heart. He was nice. There were some people out for late night snacks. I feel as if the world of china is closing in on me. My mom warns me not to tell people about my extended family. Absurd. Yes. I pass by a Chinese school and think I might want to volunteer some of my time.
Enough.
