delta

the dissapated scent of a million people who have streamed past you, each awash in their own memories and caught up in carrying on in the moment. smoke gets in my hair and i recall being burnt by the lit end of a cigarette, the other end of which looks dipped in cheap pink lip rouge. my hair airs the tired smell of smoke and odour and the scent of a million other people. i lie prostrate on the couch, wondering why my head does not spin as much as before. perhaps it is time for another vodka, indeed. mix one with coke and down the combination. add the lethal combination of a pill or two, and send yourself to high heaven.

of pierces and art, of tiny red dots and bleeding lips.

the emptiness that seems reflected on the walls. the shadows empty existences of inanimate objects. and then perhaps your head stands to spin, the vodka burning a thin thread of acidity down your throat. you feel it moving swiftly through your gullet and then identify where the alcohol has gone to by a burning sensation in your stomach.

in a nutshell, it is close to the end. the first end if not the second ending and it already feels like it. to hang on for the moment, uncertainty shrouded in the desire to cling on just for a little more. ahh.

i care little, because i've found out the divergence between caring and how things divert from going the way you think they should, just because you cared. subject to realism, perhaps.
and i am nearing the end of my teether. another hiatus again, perhaps?
of going to a place where i become faceless and nameless.

you were there that day when i left. you were in the hall, togged as you were, all the time. perhaps you were running, perhaps you stopped for a moment. were you there when i felt the helpless urge to speak? did you look up into the sky and think of different people, different worlds? worlds apart, as we are, would you ever know the significance of any item to me?

would you have known that tiny contraption placed upon a pedestal at my desk, that i wanted to hurl it down 30 storeys below and then watch it lying in bits upon the concrete? but what good would that have been? i recognise flashes of vengence now as crumply bits of salvaging your own self-worth. as if it were of any good.you drift now, with the practiced air of nonchalance, mastered through years of being too uptight about everything else. nothing else seems to matter, you seem to say.

i'd smile and look at you one day on, perhaps then you'd be the person i'd hoped you'd be.

lights up!

a tiny plastic ornament hangs from a pedestal, mocking me as it swings forwards and backwards. a cheap object, gained from a pseudo-machine taking in cash in the guise of amusing young children, reminding me of the time all the children swarmed around us in taipei, squealing in delight and counting down as the toys tumbled down from the machines in return for a paltry 10 yuan.

fun, laughter, and joy. these remind me of another scene. intersperse the present moment with the precocious delight of children. eyes wide in disbelief and unbriddled curiosity at what could have caused so much joy - half in bewilderment too, at the huge concept of happiness itself, little of which they have grasped - for how would they have known that without sadness, they would never have known joy. joy, pure unadulterated, a bane to those who realise that joy at the present moment would only serve to remind them of "the better time", as so-called when it comes to their turn to be down and out?

i crossed the path of death once this week, ignoring the flashing green man and insistent on going across the road. i stopped in the middle and glared angrily at the motorbike taking precendence, moving forward, then realising that all the vehicles were moving forward, and none were looking at my bike stuck in the middle of the road, crossing towards the right side of the road as i was, and turning right to the expressway as they were. i flustered. yet, the classic instance of half your life flashing past you while you are facing imminent death never falls true, for me, anyway.

in the past month, i have been busy. i have grieved far lesser than i thought i might have. i have flown to taipei with tickets bought the day before again, as usual. i walked the streets of ximending and took the jieyun again. i didn't buy any taiyangbings back anyhow. in a flash, it is difficult to sum up what i've been up to these past few months when i've been unreachable. it could have all been a dream, it could have not. anyhow, like kafka on the shore, i do think i might be in a sandstorm right now. perhaps the best resort would be to take my hands and cover my ears with them, to close my eyes and to hope that my lids offer the best protection against the flying dust in the wind.

as always, the lights are still on. i don't know how or why, but that is a consolation.