There seems to be a constant, nagging funk that I need to get out of. 

Haven’t been getting enough sleep these days. Mr M’s snoring is like a nocturnal symphony that plays on repeat. 

Zzzzzzzz

When I woke up this morning my face was wet. I can’t be sure whether the crying was about a disturbing dream of me caught inside a maze, trying to free myself but to no avail. 

I could watch this all day, the view through a tiny window in the bathroom.

A blur is all that I see, with the different kinds of lights and colours mother nature feels like offering on different days, caressing my hair all the way to my soul. 

It’s where I only want to be, inside the bathroom, isolated from the outside world, until I settle somewhere far, far away from the noise and disturbance; far away from where I am today, these days, where I have been for too long. 

While studying in Cardiff I became friendly with one of the instructors, the fags being our connection. We’d talk about everything and anything, including my mother who has the tendency to impose her reality on other people, and he even gave me a book on family matters, which I truly enjoyed.

Nearing graduation our conversations naturally gravitated towards career planning. He said he couldn’t see me working in an office. I couldn’t agree more: the thought of repeating that fixed schedule that reminiscent of high school was not what I thought my life should be. The past decade has proved Gary right, I often feel like an animal in captivity. 

At my age I ponder whether a stable income is all I need to ‘live’. All I need is really a certain level of income to keep me going, and a place to call home. I’ve long fantasised about living on a boat (one with a bedroom, perhaps) and staying here and there around the world, depending on my mood. With Wi-Fi and all the technology available I can work freelance to put food on the table; I can’t tell you enough how much I love that idea.

But due to circumstances I can’t live the life I want, and I’m restless. 

Hong Kong is overcrowded, just as my mind is over-cluttered.

Cluttered with what? Lots of things: new challenges, the meaning of my life, the selfishness and stranglehold of my mum, the wasted effort of my long-suffering dad, the fur kids’ happiness (including Toffee’s), forced social obligations, voluntary social obligations, refraining myself from obsessive book shopping, the grease on my phone, my sister’s relationship that’s not going anywhere, the wistful thought that the number of books I can read in my lifetime being finite… 

I could very well be letting my mind wander off to these territories if I were living in the suburbs of Hokkaido, Japan or Sweden, but I’m quite sure the meaning of my life would be lese frequently tapped because it would be more fulfilled. 

It’s not like I dread waking up early every day for work, what I dread is waking up early every day to devote my time and attention to things that don’t actually make the world a better place. 

The passion to write is still there, it has always been there, but it is waiting for the right kind of log to burn like a devil. 

Anxiety.

Anxiety is an arse. It eats you up and renders you in a limbo, regardless of how hard you try to keep your mind otherwise occupied.

Dreadful is the feeling of being left wondering, not knowing what will happen next and when. For the best part of the past decade I have resolved to maintain peace of mind, only allowing myself to be excited about something when it is finally happening. People babble about their upcoming trips away, I don’t, but the exhilaration is exhibited in a palpable manner when I’ve finally boarded the plane, like a nut case who’d just woken up to see that something good is happening for real.

If I get to choose, I’d be sleeping all day until I’m notified of that opportunity or event or what-not is happening for certain. The wait is torture. No wonder dogs chew and gnaw at things when they’re left at home alone, anxious for their favourite humans to come home.

Best mosquito repellent ever. The lack of a proper door at our stairwell means mosquito infestation is pretty bad here, and we often hear our neighbour upstairs swatting mosquitoes with the electric ‘racquet’ with such fervour that the image of my favourite tennis player, Pete Sampras, pops up in my mind. One day, we decided to put some lit mosquito repellent incense right outside the door, in the stairwell, and it obviously helped because the tennis-style swatting stopped came evening, and we even came home one day to find a new mosquito repellent incense in the foil dish we made.