originally i intended to tell a story of the most heartbreaking journey in the world, but at the last moment I changed my mind. whether it was in saigon where L’Amant story happend or taipei, my spiritual home and sanctuary, they were just the melancholy tropical fantasies at the end of my 22. The perpetually humid and sweltering december, the afternoons that always rained at a certain hour, and a duras style narrative.
In the displacement across countries, I naively believed geographical distance could change something. we walked along the canal, sat on the back of motorbikes, or lingered on balcony at night. The anonymity granted by a foreign land made us mistakenly believe that intimacy could escape the pull of gravity and hover eternally within the tropical monsoon.
But every journey has a day of return; from the very first day, we were engaged in a long rehearsal for goodbye. This displacement was not only a movement across a map but a continuous ascent in psychological altitude, until the air grew thin, until I saw the "home" named Taipei and the tropical dreamscape were merely temporary shelters we had constructed out of illusion.
I do not know if a relationship can ever truly die in the sense of time. Sometimes it turns into a sort of curse or a shadow, constantly reminding me of the time limit on happiness, and now the portion that belonged to us has perished. Every node that no longer fluctuates requires a suicide note of sorts, so I commemorate it in this way.
In the displacement across countries, I naively believed geographical distance could change something. we walked along the canal, sat on the back of motorbikes, or lingered on balcony at night. The anonymity granted by a foreign land made us mistakenly believe that intimacy could escape the pull of gravity and hover eternally within the tropical monsoon.
But every journey has a day of return; from the very first day, we were engaged in a long rehearsal for goodbye. This displacement was not only a movement across a map but a continuous ascent in psychological altitude, until the air grew thin, until I saw the "home" named Taipei and the tropical dreamscape were merely temporary shelters we had constructed out of illusion.
I do not know if a relationship can ever truly die in the sense of time. Sometimes it turns into a sort of curse or a shadow, constantly reminding me of the time limit on happiness, and now the portion that belonged to us has perished. Every node that no longer fluctuates requires a suicide note of sorts, so I commemorate it in this way.
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