I can't hear you, you can't hear me, we're in different worlds.

Today has been an extremely hot day. The weather network had said that yesterday was supposed to be the hottest day of the week, but I think yesterday was relatively cool compared to today's weather. Of course, I can only talk about this like it's a mere observation when I'm back at home and enjoying the wonders of air conditioning, whereas my mind was muddled like the air in Hong Kong when I was outside just an hour ago. I got up this morning intending to go to church, but on my way there, incidentally I stepped off of the subway on a whim and eventually ended up at a Starbucks reading Murakami Haruki's After Dark. I stayed there reading for about two hours before I decided to do some shopping and head home.

As I was heading home a few hours later in the afternoon, it occurred to me that I walk extremely fast for someone who doesn't actually have any plans for the day. I think this is a habit of mine: I get up and I pick out a nice outfit for the day despite there not being any special occasion. I then wear the pair of shoes that most matches the outfit I picked, whether it is a comfortable pair of flats or a pair of four inch heels. Then I put a book in my bag "just in case I feel like taking a break", and head out the door like I have business to attend to. I walk very straight and very fast, looking ahead and rarely at other people that I pass by. If I was someone else passing by myself, I would probably think that this fast-paced person (me) had an appointment waiting, when in reality, I might be just heading out to a cafe by myself to read a book or write a letter. Nothing that is especially pressing for time. I just enjoy this sense of "point A to point B" that I make for myself; the exact process of getting to point B is not the subject, I just need to get there and enjoy myself along the way as I walk to the allegrissimo tempo of a good song.

I guess this can apply to almost all aspects for me, that I'm more interested in showing people the result rather than the process. That is not to say that I think the process is insignificant; rather, I think that the process is so complicated and personal that I'm reluctant for other people to see how exactly I manage to get myself from one place to another, literally and figuratively speaking. I want other people to admire the result after I am done crafting it into something I'm satisfied with, but anything that has yet to reach my personal standards must not be seen by anyone else (this is also true for my writing). I prefer not to interact with anyone during this process… maybe because it's embarrassing for me to show any signs of struggle. And 'process' is basically synonymous to 'struggle'.

But I was also thinking yesterday that I should smile more at other people on the streets, give them some form of acknowledgment as co-existences on this planet. I do try to at least look a little friendly despite my feigned busyness. Especially in cities and crowded places, I find that the urban solitude is so apparent in the subway and on the streets that it's almost oppressive to the individual, like you can't be anything but busy and within your own space. It's very discouraging and unnecessary. But a smile costs nothing to give, not even time. You can pass by someone and give them a smile on your way, it doesn't interrupt anything for you or for them. So I thought to myself yesterday, well, if I can't even afford to smile at someone then I'd really be conceitedly worthless as a human being!

In any case, breaking down the invisible wall of urban solitude is going to be a hard task, but I'll make it a personal goal to do my part in taking down my own wall.

Of coming back to an exotic home.

It has been a while! Since my updates have been sparse, I had assumed that the number of visitors to my blog has also dropped significantly. But it seems there have still been quite a few poor souls who had the misfortune of coming across this mass of dark matter that I had left adrift in cyberspace. I apologize for it raining on anybody's sunny day. I intend to blog more often from here on, and hopefully on happier matters as to not upset any more innocent readers.

Just kidding, like I would do that for anyone. I really will try to blog more often though.

In any case, having officially graduated from university since June, I moved out of Montreal in May and paid a short visit back to Vancouver before leaving for where I am currently residing: Hong Kong. I suppose I've never given a proper overview of my personal history, but generally, I was born in Hong Kong but moved to Vancouver at the age of 4, having lived there ever since. I came to Hong Kong every few years for "vacation" (also known as "visiting the relatives and showing that you remember their existence as by Chinese tradition"), but I don't think I've ever stayed here for over 3 weeks at a time. I am now close to having lived here in Hong Kong for two months. It's definitely a record!

Having said that though, I also have to say that I've been terribly homesick for Canada. Hong Kong is a very vibrant and urban place to be; but of course, those are just euphemisms for "noisy", "overcrowded", "artificial". Certainly the number of shopping centers and food options is incredible, perfect for the typical, materialistic tourist looking to replenish their closet. But having lived here for more than a few weeks, I think what I've been craving for a lot lately is just open space, some fresh air, and a more natural landscape. I want a place where I don't have to push through crowds, hear bits of conversation from people I don't know, or feel like I need to pay so I can buy some time to sit at a place that's not my own home (through a cup of coffee)--and even then, they want to get you out of your spot ASAP since you're a hindrance to them profiting from more business. Of course, the heat and humidity during the ridiculously hot summer here doesn't do much to improve my mood.

The urban solitude here drives me insane. The infinite masses of people, the tall buildings, the concrete, the gray, the dullness--it's so stifling, I feel so suffocated on some days. What I would give to lie in a huge, grassy field on a refreshing day with a book in my hand.

And of course, there are cultural differences as well that make me feel incredibly out of place. I've been meeting up with friends that are visiting Hong Kong for vacation or for the summer, but to talk to someone who grew up in Hong Kong and actually lives here, it's a real challenge for me. I don't think I can have an honest conversation with them all that often on topics that I actually care about. Topics not about television shows, brand names, new shops that have opened, movies out this summer… that is not to say that those aren't fun to talk about once in a while, but conversations that consist only of this kind of superficiality really depress me. Of course, even if there are people who like to talk about music and literature, it would be in Chinese and wouldn't extend as far as English literature.

But these are cultural differences; interests vary depending on what kind of environment one grows up in or what kind of people one interacts with. I don't think I'd mind superficiality if I could actually enjoy it without feeling depressed. I think it would be kind of nice to be entertained by simple things and feed off of society like I'm supposed to. This might not entirely be an issue of experiencing culture shock even, just that all these social mechanics that I don't agree with in general manifest themselves more in Hong Kong, where I see things with more critical eyes since I'm in an unfamiliar setting yet people interact with me like I'm one of them. Again, it's that feeling where I know I'm supposed to belong since I'm from Hong Kong; I've been here many times and I speak the language, yet I'm just not quite there. Quite far, actually. That kind of awkward distance is uncomfortable.

But despite having voiced all this negativity, I think I really want to understand Hong Kong--not as a tourist but as a member of it, as temporary as that may turn out to be. There are so many people here, so dense in such a small space, that I wonder how people can actually have a desire to stay here for the rest of their lives. I'm not only talking about people who grew up here; I have seen foreigners here that have willingly decided to move and live in Hong Kong. From seeing that, I want to believe that Hong Kong is not an empty shell of concrete but that there is something profound in this kind of busy lifestyle, something behind the mechanicalness that I have yet to learn to appreciate.

I guess I am just especially bad at adapting. Change has always been one of my biggest fears, but usually my curiosity and constant restlessness overpowers my fear for change. Maybe I'm fortunate in that sense, but it creates another mass of confusion in my thoughts. I say I want to try but I complain all the while trying--I suppose that's yet another aspect that I need to improve on. But since I'm here already, I want to make experiences that will eventually turn into memories I can look back on and say, "Ah, I was so stupid but I'm glad I was given that kind of opportunity to get over myself." After all, not being able to understand and accept differences is a kind of conceit, and I seriously need to rid myself of it.

What was it that I said a few entries ago, that I wanted to truly love the world? I really do.

Salt and spice.

I wasn't sure how to describe it before. I'm sure most people have experienced, at least once, a sort of physical pain when one is so sad to the point where you've cried and thought so much that you don't know what you're crying about anymore, and you just want to shrivel up against the aching inside. The feeling when it's as if your heart is being squeezed, that you want to double over and wrap your arms around yourself. Well, I think all of that is normal to an extent, whether people talk about it often or not.

I feel the same way when someone is being kind to me.

It's not a "I'm so happy from this act of kindness that I want to cry," it's more that I don't feel I deserve this sort of kindness, and I can't imagine why anyone would offer something to me in return for nothing. It just blows my mind, every time. I feel a mix of gratitude, happiness, sadness, and shame that I'm receiving more than I've given. I want the other person to know how grateful I am so he or she can at least be glad that they did the deed, yet I'm so terrible at expressing my gratitude that I feel it just makes me deserve the act of kindness even less.

I began to think that there was something fundamentally wrong with how I think, or maybe not 'wrong' per se, but definitely illogical compared to the standard definitions for basic emotions. At first, it was just a twinge inside whenever someone offered me their extra attention, but then it grew to something bigger, and I found myself crying when I got back home a lot of the time. There is definitely something strange about wanting to cry after spending time with a friend, or while being surrounded by people who willingly give me not only their company but their care and concern, or just simply having had a rare good day where I didn't spend as much time dwelling on my usual cares. Receiving something good in general just eventually made something inside me hurt, more and more often.

Then I think to myself, maybe it's me that has forgotten what it means to truly be kind. Maybe it's because I've been so angry at society for having enforced so many social obligations onto me (especially after recent events) that I don't understand anything that's not a system, but just spontaneous acts from the heart. Maybe that's why I get a little scared when someone is too kind to me. It kind of topples my bitter understanding of the world.

But last week, someone told me that she thinks we cry whenever we feel extreme emotion. And I thought about it. Of course, there are the extremes like 'happy' and 'sad', but what if being thankful could be just as strong of a feeling? Deep gratitude is definitely a mix of both happy and sad for me. Perhaps it's because society and how it's structured today don't give much space for people to show kindness, such that the rare acts of sincerity that are seen appear all the more unworldly to me.

This past year has really tested my mental capacities, and I admit, I cry a lot more often these days for various reasons. I've become really confused about my emotions and how to distinguish between them, and indeed, it makes it even harder for me to describe to people how exactly I 'feel'. Sometimes I wonder if I feel at all.

Various people's kindness have touched me in different ways this year. The best description I can give is that I was able to taste so many new flavours I didn't know could even exist; from this, so many beautiful moments were created. Yet when I think about that, there's the painful twinge from inside again. And then I find myself sometimes, sitting on my bed and crying from the ephemerality of it all.

But, I think it's safe to say that what I've really learned this year is how to feel gratitude from the bottom of my heart.

Maybe you should have just named me Cordelia. But I'm glad you didn't.

April 25th.

Today would have been my mother's birthday. She would have turned 47.

April 25 was one of the first dates I ever learned to remember. I remember when I was little, I asked my mom one year how old she was, but I had already forgotten when her birthday came around again the following year and she had refused to tell me her age again. Of course, eventually I just remembered her year of birth and calculated from that whenever I lost count. I teased her when she hit 40. And then I stopped writing or mentioning her age, even though I would secretly tell my friends because then they would be impressed at how young my mom was.

I also made her a card every year, and she would stick them on the wall, just above her bedpost, or on her bedroom door. I had a phase during my early teenage years when I really liked to do amateur graphic design, so I would make tacky graphics on Adobe Photoshop and print them out for her... she liked those too. After I went to university, her birthday would always fall in between my final exam period, but I would still go shopping for her birthday present without fail.

It's a special feeling, shopping for your mother. There really are limited ways you can give back to your mother for all that she's done. Shopping for her gift always served as a kind of activity in which I could reflect on how thankful I was to her, and how I really can't give back anything that would be enough to match what she's given me all these years. That is, life itself, and unconditional love.

Facebook decided to remind me that it was my mother's birthday today, too. Seeing her name on the side bar after midnight, I clicked on it. I was one of those kids that kind of enjoyed having their parent on Facebook--I thought having a mom that knew how to use the computer and even had Facebook was pretty cool. Even though she never really used it. Her profile today is the same as always, void of activity except for me and my aunt wishing her a happy birthday every year. In 2009, I sent her "lots of love". In 2010, I asked her if she was using the bag I gave her--ah, that's right, I sent her a handbag by mail for her birthday last year.

I don't know why I do this to myself, looking to breaking my own heart over and over again, doing stuff like looking at her Facebook page, at our past messages to each other, our emails... it's a shame we don't really have pictures together. It's probably my fault. I was a rebel child until the end, reluctant to even say "I love you" most of the time. Even though I did love her so very much... I just couldn't put it into words. Why is it always so hard to say what you mean?

When she lay in bed at the hospital during the last few days of her life... I kept telling her, I love you, I love you, I love you. As if I could make up for all those times that I didn't say it to her. For all those times she wanted to hear it, but I had foolishly valued my own pride over a few very simple but powerful words. If perchance she had been happy to hear those words from me towards the end of her life... why had I not given her many more days of happiness before that, when I could have easily done so?

Only my mother would ever forgive someone as twisted and ugly as I am. And so she did, many, many times.

But this kind of unconditional relationship doesn't exist anymore for me, not in this world. I am only left with memories of such an incomparable love, and all I can do now is to keep these memories close. It breaks my heart every time I think of it and regret continues to tear at me (as it should), but I don't ever want to forget. I mustn't forget. I can only remember.

April 25, in remembrance of my beloved mother. Happy Birthday, Mommy.

I love you.

This is perhaps the most incoherent entry I have ever written.

I recently came to realize that I've become a rather serious person. This sounds ridiculous, but I was sipping on my cup of tea at a tea salon this past Saturday, when the thought suddenly came to me: I think I'm someone who prefers to communicate in something more abstract and indirect than speech.

I was with a friend at the tea salon, and we were on the topic of how we interact with strangers and how acquaintances progress to being friends. Not that I'm selective when it comes to friends; I'm not so egotistic that I have a checklist--I actually think it's quite easy to be counted as one of my friends. Having said that though, I have very clear definitions in my mind of who is a friend and what that means to me. Maybe this is an example of my overly serious personality, but I always feel that there are responsibilities in being someone's friend.

At the tea salon, my friend was saying how she is the type of person who would be quiet on first impression, but the more she gets to know someone, the more she talks to them--which, I think, is perfectly normal. But it occurred to me as she said that, that I was the complete opposite. The less I know someone, the more I feel obliged to talk, to be entertaining, to seem pleasant. Not that I'm too unpleasant otherwise (or am I?), but in complete honestly, I'm also often a depressing existentialist who has trouble seeing things in life as anything but mundane and futile. But despite being so, nevertheless I do try hard to appreciate life in the world that I was born in and to be thankful, and the closest of my friends understand this. So it's like lighting a candle to conserve energy instead of having to turn on all the lights; the candle may cast shadows, but the important thing is, there is still light amidst the dark and that's all I really need for now.

Basically, my realization is that, by nature, I am a person of few spoken words who constantly drifts between being deep in thought to focusing back on the real world. Writing is different because it's a private sphere; they are my thoughts and they don't have to connect if I don't want them to (versus a conversation where one topic usually leads logically into the next). There are many things I feel and think about that I will never be able to put into words, much less within the constrictions of speech and conversation. Perhaps this is another reason why I like literature, because it is one of the only ways, in my opinion, in which another person's thoughts can infiltrate into mine, and an exchange of thought can take place but only privately within my own mind, where I'm free to go at whatever pace I like and turn certain thoughts over again and again.

Being of few words doesn't mean I don't enjoy company, however; I value friendship immensely and am always, always grateful for having people with me. I just feel especially comfortable around people who respect the abstract side of me, friends that I can be with and not have to spend extra effort in entertaining them with meaningless chatter. I enjoy days of lying in the sun on a grassy field, reading a book at a cafe for hours, sitting on a bench and watching people pass by--quiet activities, time spent in silence. I also enjoy a slow conversation while sipping on tea on a cold Saturday afternoon, taking a walk around town with a friend, going on a hike in the mountains and having a picnic, listening to stories and to other people's thoughts if they're willing to share them with me.

I guess there isn't really a point to this entry. I was simply reflecting on the energetic child I used to be, but now that time has molded me into someone else, I guess I have just been feeling a deep sense of loss for that in addition to the loss of my mother. In regards to losing my mom, the pain is still fresh and comes in waves, sometimes overwhelming and other times subtle enough to ignore. It just so happens that there were a few things I encountered over the past couple of days that reminded me so much of my mom and of my childhood. I silently grieve for those in my mind, and walk on.

I am trying to remember why I decided to blog about friendship and memories of my mom and how they were connected (see what I mean?). I think it was because I always think that I should keep my unhappiness to myself, because it would be a burden to other people around me. Personally, I feel especially distressed whenever someone else is sad, so I most definitely don't want the reverse to happen. It's very tiring to worry for someone else, and I don't feel that anyone else should ever have to do that on my behalf. I want to share other people's distress, but I don't want to share mine. While this sounds awfully selfless of me, I can assure you that it isn't. Basically, I like all negative feelings to be under my control, and the only way I can do that is if they're contained within myself. I feel the most secure this way.

I have no idea where I'm going with this. But let's just say that, in the end, I'm glad that there are people who continue to uphold my faith in humanity with their goodness and kindness towards me. And I want to pass that on. Having grown up a bit more, I want to love the world not blindly as I did when I was a child, but from having experienced more ugly sides of life, love the world and its people in their flawed states.

I want to be able to take a deep breath every morning, and embrace the world.