Walking on the road this morning. Chilly early winter day. Rained for the last two days (or really just on and off of yesterday), and temperature has dropped to the point that I feel the winter smell.
What makes you sad? and makes you wonder? what makes you to have thoughts? to feel like writing something? to miss someone? to talk to, if, anyone? to look at the passing bys, taking interest of what they, where they are going, or what their life is like?
I don't know. This is indeed a strange city. Maybe taking a walk in the morning does give you more to think about, to feel about, and to have something to talk about. Sitting here at Starbucks early morning, while everybody rushes in and out to get their dose, and xmas song in the background, should I feel tied to home, where they are looking forward to the upcoming holiday? But I can't feel that at all. This empty table, like this empty space, is only giving a replay of the mornings we were sitting together, also at Starbucks, sometimes chatting, sometimes just sitting there. Not much to say, but much to save.
So that is memory. What a terrible thing it is! Can a person be called a person if s/he does not have memory anymore? Dad is like that. He has lost a lot of things. You can still say that he has memory, some arbitrary, arcane ones that even hard for me to understand and to follow. Yet, the type of memory that lingers in my mind, to remind me of you, is the best of me, is the worst of my day.
Why there are so many shadows that will not go away? Even this isn't the one we spent time at, it's the, I don't know, not even the smell, cause this shop doesn't have any coffee smell at all. So what is it? The lighting? the hour of the day? the empty chair across to mine? or maybe, it's nothing of these, but only, because, you still occupy a spot in my heart, in my mind, front row, center, the only audience I care to please, care to look at, care to feel.
And here I am, a one man show, staged in what they call life. It has way passed its prime, but for what it is still left, I am here, playing the play, just for you.
Wherever you are, and whenever you read this. This is a lonely, strange winter morning in Shanghai, a city that only makes me feel tolerable, because it has, or it may have, you.
— by Feng Xia