College. I re-read my old entries on that tumblr (I used tumblr back then). Back then, I was Holden Caufield and Stephen Chbosky's Charlie rolled in one. My entries were incredibly depressing. I wrote of esoteric and disjointed stories because my mind went off on sporadic paths. I was subdued, nihilistic, and deeply exhausted with my life. I grappled with being happy - the idea of going through college as a heavily closeted guy took its toll and I projected my unhappiness on to everything whenever I wrote. But face to face I was always a lark. I don't know how I did it back then - it must be why I got so exhausted from the lying by omission, and grew terribly defeatist.
I even write very differently now. In all honesty, I prefer my old style of writing. It was more cryptic, more terse, and more gripping with its sadness. In some ways I find it difficult to stop believing that self-inflicted sadness, like how all successful artists do, is beautiful.
I was definitely a lot more self-destructive back then. The earlier half of my posts on this blog mirrored parts of my old self. But I am rather alarmed at how my writing has wavered so much, and for some reason I feel that I have become a lot more simplistic -
but it also makes sense. I always wrote because I felt disconnected from my peers - I felt different and I struggled with feeling different, and I took to writing everything out. And I waxed lyrical and romanticized my melancholic affliction. Now that I am happy, and that I still love writing, I tend to just recount things that has happened to me; back then I felt little point in mentioning things that were happening to me, so I made myself think that nothing was happening, even though plenty was happening.
Basically, I wonder if I'm happy. It's hard to shake myself off old habits. I tend to love being complicated. Being happy is very simplistic. I always tend to associate happiness with lesser ignorant minds. But isn't contentment what we all want?
I really do want to be contented. In some ways, I feel very contented.
And because I have now entirely forsaken brevity, plus I am left alone with my thoughts quite a bit nowadays so I like to write them down, I shall:
Today I ordered myself a tuna mayo panini (I love tuna, mayo, paninis all separately and together too), and I sat on the high stool and watched as the Filipino staff washed the lettuce, prepared the George Foreman grilling thing, chattering among themselves in their local language (probably Tagalog). I was listening to my playlist of throwbacks, which included a lot of Sugar Ray and Third Eye Blind. I smiled because the music was good, and I liked observing people. I've always enjoyed being an observer - it stemmed from my antisocial days where I preferred not to participate, but look from afar as if I was in a safari viewing animals. I liked watching the Filipino staff - I wondered what they felt about life. Are they happy they moved to Hong Kong? Do they enjoy their work? Surely it must be rather fun to be in what seems to be a nice and warm Pinoy community for work in a foreign land. I wondered if they thought that their customers were all foreign pigs (including the HK locals). I really wanted to ask them if they were happy with their lives, and if they saw their children back home enough.
Then I looked around the rest of the supermarket, because I was halfway through my sandwich. Most were foreign guys in suits - mostly very badly tailored, hence I guessed that none of them are Italian, grabbing a bite at the panini station because well, the lines at the Japanese ramen stall was a lot longer (we are in Asia after all). I too wondered if they were happy with their lives - but I didn't care about them, because they were smug and it was all over their faces. I saw a youngish mom with an infant strapped in front of her while she pointed at desert cakes, and I thought about having babies. Then I finished my sandwich, and went to find N.
We sat at Starbuck's and got a green tea frappuccino. Yes, welcome to Asia once again. N loves that drink. He told me how he's really bored with work because there's nothing to do now, and if it continues for the rest of the week, he'll tell his bosses (who are my dad's underlings) that he's going to quit in May. The thing is, N is really very nice and has great work ethic. He goes to work 15 minutes before his shift all the time, and doesn't take breaks longer than 15 minutes. When he has nothing to do, he will message me, and he will update me on news that he has read from around the world. He will leave only after his shift ends, even if it means that for days where he's doing the overnight shift till 3.30am, he would miss the 3.28am bus back home, and he would wait for the next bus at 3.50am.
I understand this is definitely partly due to the fact that he doesn't want people to think that he's some kind of bratty foreign prince who got a job in Asia because of his boyfriend and then shits on everyone's faces. But mostly, it's because he's a really nice guy. Plus, the office people have unanimously agreed that he is the most good looking staff they have ever hired. Brownie points for me for bagging this one, obviously.
Then I went and got my haircut after. I had to pass by my old office on the way. I walked with purpose, but very briskly, and ignored the faces of everyone by focusing on the tall buildings in front of me, focusing on my 'purpose' of going to get my haircut, so I wouldn't see any of the 3 ex-colleagues on the way. I'm silly.
Then I went to the gym after. And I spoke to a good blogger friend of mine (his blog is defunct), who left his deeply religious and conservative Panamanian family to the UK as a transfer student and is now dating a nice kid (from Grindr) for the past three weeks. I felt so happy for him. R has also found a nice Cypriot date for the past few weeks from Tinder too. I'm also very happy for him. While yes, celebration is premature, these are the baby steps for people accepting themselves, and for that, I'm very happy for them.
I have not been working out regularly. In fact, I think I'm lifting lighter weights than I did a year ago. Becoming fit is tough. I don't understand this word 'discipline' at all.
I took this picture right before an old man from the sauna traipsed past with his ridiculous bush engulfing his tiny dick. It also reminded me that I have to trim my pubes, because godfuckingdammit, I projected his unkemptness on to myself.
Anyway, I lost track of the point of why I started this entry. Guess I'll stop here.