It's been a full year that I’ve been living in Hong Kong.
My life has changed dramatically, not since I’ve been here, but through this pandemic. I changed my career, moved on after working twenty-five years in an industry that I'm not even sure I should I have worked in...but no regrets. I do what I want now, and now I write, I create.
In what I write now, the first entry of this new journal, I don’t care whether or not I offend, or am politically correct or whatever the fuck you want to call it. I just write my truth, as often and as much as I can.
There are days, sometimes weeks, when words escape my hand. They fill my head, but refuse to be put to pages. Fuck those days. Those are the worst of my days.
The best are days are like these, when impressions or thoughts or emotions or whatever you might call them, run through my head. On days like these, words fill my head all day.
There are other times when I sit at home alone, I sit at the bar alone, I sit by the Harbour alone. I'm alone in my head until Hilcia comes home.
On those days, I watch the people, the city flying by, the birds circling the high rises, the water as it ripples past the boats. I wonder. I think. I feel. It’s as if I'm in my own independent film.
I hear the sound track to my life as all of those colorful, wonderful, eccentric bits fill my vision, creating new memories, new stories.
Sometimes I see sadness, and then I feel the sadness. Sometimes I see joy, and then I feel the joy.
Everyday it’s different. Everyday it’s unique. Life in a city this size is bound to be different.
I wish I could truly communicate how the things I see impact me, how they make me feel. I know I absorb it all. The city’s trauma, its excitement, her good and her bad.
I don’t really even know what I’m writing now, just words that mean something to me I guess. But fuck it, that’s ok.
"Just wait for the film"…that’s what I think today as I drink my second beer after my first margarita while I watch the world flash by.