written last night. november days in hong kong; so different from last year.

8:23 pm. he’s asleep on the sofa as I type this. broken social scene is keeping me company but I am not really listening to the words of lover’s spit even though it is one of the best songs on the album. it has been a long time since I listened to it. the past few days I have been waking up to yellow glow of our apartment as the sun touches the walls through the curtains in my room. my morning routines are starting to set their roots in my day. during the first few minutes of my consciousness I am not responsive to the outer world but the words of the day are already being formed in my mind. I imagine them on paper; what they sound like, what they taste like. I picture my words being printed in a book on a shelf in a bookstore. that image, that idea never leaves me. and then I remember.

I remember that my words are filled with gaps and pauses and there is so much I am not capable of noting down the way it should be. sometimes my imagination precedes me and the meaning of words escapes me. so I take photographs instead, I read other people’s words hoping they will provide me with comfort I cannot find in my own writing. I keep thinking of susan sontag and her greatness. I am constantly reminded that the only thing standing between me and being a great writer is laziness. I keep trying to find excuses. writer’s block, too much work, too many people. this and that.

at the end of the day I sit down and write. write, write, write, write. like there’s no tomorrow. because there isn’t one. for some reason filmmaker’s apartment is the only place right now I can find some quiet moments. I wanted to think it’s a good thing but it actually feels as if chains have been tied around my arms. but I still took a minibus back to the ghetto; we had dinner and we walked around. I am confused around tsuen wan and I never really know where to turn because it all looks the same. but then I don’t have to know anything for as long he’ll be waiting at the bus station with a newspaper in one hand and twenty fifth cigarette of the day in the other.

perfect sunday, working sunday, relaxing sunday. warm weather, blue skies. coffee, lunch, beach. markets and bookshops. taking photographs, walking around. talking, laughing, smiling. sitting in silence. bombay, twilight, bokeh. traffic jam, zaz on repeat. chicken kebab with chips for dinner. the day ended in solitude; a short walk from the red district back to central. I fell asleep before midnight.

currently I am at filmmaker’s apartment. I passed out earlier on his sofa whilst he listened to morcheeba. a twenty minute power nap that has now awakened me to such extent I actually feel the urge to write. the apartment is growing darker; the only sounds being the buzzing of the city and the radio dept. lowered to minimum on small speakers. filmmaker is asleep in his room. for the first time in a while I have a little bit of time to myself. just me and the glowing computer. it feels inappropriate that this is how I make my great comeback to this little space of mine but then I have to wonder why have I created standards to go by in the first place. the point is just to write. they always say that. in order to write, you first must write. it seems like such an obvious advice that it becomes useless. but the crucial part to writing is actually the hardest one. at least I feel at peace now that my fingers are moving across the keyboard on their own. and it isn’t even my keyboard. I am beginning to question a lot of those other advices I was given in the past.

today marks two weeks that I’ve been back in hong kong. less importantly, it’s also exactly a year since I’d finished my last exam and then never went back to school. winter is drawing closer in this part of the world but sometimes it feels as if we are just pretending. maybe so. I am slowly descending into a daily routine but I am finding it demanding – in terms of sleep and time management for other things. I loathe that term to begin with. I am not even going to attempt to make this a whole rounded piece of writing because at the moment I am just glad that I am writing. just writing. like I used to. like I need to.

it’s good to be back.

ps. if you’re reading this, please get a better mouse.

I am behind on everything. instead of writing I keep noting down to do lists with points that say write and finish that story and finish that poem and finish that essay. on the road part four has been sitting unfinished and with a couple of different versions in my draft folder since the beginning of october. I remember I was in bosnia when I first started writing it and I thought, by the time I leave here it will be finished. I’ve been back at home for a week now and it is still there, unfinished without a future. not even the first sentence makes sense. the three month trip has worn me out. too much of everything. places, people, photos, experiences to write down. but I will get there, eventually. by the time winter truly rolls out around me I will be back with my daily musings. I just need to find my old routine and some consistency first.