Rendezvous
22 June 10 : 06.07 AM
On my own at the airport.
There's something unnerving about being alone at foreign airports. At 22 and virgin. At some cafe barely understanding what everyone else is saying.
Hong Kong is an old city soul. The glossy shiny skyscapers built on a graveyard of derelict buildings. Those falling blocks with these skeletal metal pieces that hold up beckoning neon signs. The dirt and the debris. All that's hidden at darkened corners. There's something charming to all this. Like Singapore, only amplified. Where the kitsch is more kitsch, and the real more real.
I wish I get more attached to things than people. Getting attached to people means getting dependent on things that are never predictable, ever-changing and erratic. And change always unnerves me. With people, there's only one. A lot of only-ones. What happens when these only-ones leave? I want to be attached to things. Things like Hong Kong, jazz or breathing new air or sun-baked raisins or aromatherapy, or caffeine. Maybe even designer bags or alcohol or expensive watches. Just something, not someone.