7 jul. 2018

Hong Kong’s danmei. A short story.

 “he hold me in his arms and I cried... was this the last time? That summer morning when we met, in ten years we would have forgotten, but what we have felt, it was like pale pink color. It was an endless dream. The narrow corners, the worn out bed sheets, the convenience stores underground the city, the old yellow light of the hotels and the motels ... they all wailed, everything was impregnated with our love. Every corner of Hong Kong screamed “I was here, I existed and someone I loved, loved me back”. There was no exit for this alley, i was going back to Paris, I was going back to the grey sidewalks and the melancholic jazz at cafés and girls with black dresses and red lipstick smoking cigarettes pretending to be sad or actually being sad, because Paris was like that, a boring city, a city that would crush you until you escaped or until it killed you.
I was there for one last time, in the corner of Salisbury Road and Kowloon Park with my chest wide open and a bitter taste of farewell in my mouth. I could get the smell of his soap and the warm sensation of his breathing, his skin so soft and one last look into those almond shaped eyes.
I felt Xie Yan holding tight before just letting go. Maybe he was yearning too. I missed him as soon as he let loose.
He placed his finger over my wet cheeks and with a gentle touch swipe away my tear. He was holding back, I could tell.
— don’t cry... — whatever he was going to say he was not able to finish finish. His cab arrived. So soon. It would have always been too soon.
“There’s no chance I’ll see you again” he was the realist and I the dreamer. I hold tight onto those dreams... my legs started to move, as I saw that car moving away, I started to desperately chase it... he was still there, I could still follow him, desperately, unhesitatingly, hopelessly. He turn back and saw me, he waved his hand back and me and I collapse onto the ground, crying with my hands over my neck, trying not to fall apart, pretending it didn’t hurt as bad, trying to make sense of the rest of my life.

I took a cab to the airport. Lu Han’s Tian Min Min was playing on the radio and a wave of sadness, for I don’t know how else to call what I was feeling then, quivered through my body. The air con felt too cold, the speed seemed too fast. The taxi moved away from the city and Hong Kong was slowly fading into my memory, already small and already distant. I still had the smell of his soap impregnated in my clothes and almost obsessively, I tried to recall a year of my life in a forty five minute ride.
We were apart, we were already apart.
It had been too pretty. The summer was over, tomorrow I was going to be in my four wall room in Lille, colder and grey.
I couldn’t stop moving in the back seat, just thinking and thinking and thinking.
Xie Yang, how are you going to wake up tomorrow. How am I gonna go back to the world, knowing you won’t be there?
— Did you forget something? — the driver asked.
There were never flowers in you. And yet you were my most beloved spring, a summer that burnt my soul and the wind of autumn that took away my ashes. I was going to forget, eventually. August turned into September and soon it was snowing outside my window at La Sorbonne and you have always wanted to come...It was distant how it felt, the sweat running down our faces in the stifling weather of May in Hong Kong, with a fan hardly working,with the sun trespassing the yellow curtains of our room in Wan Chain.
But I looked outside my window and you weren’t there, and your smile wasn’t there and your image was pale. There were never flowers in you, and yet that winter I couldn’t stop thinking how much you liked lavenders.


Ok, if you ask me this is extremely shabby. I almost hate it. But I wrote it a 2 am or something, after reading koi monogatari I think, or was it killing stalking? idk but I don't love this passages. I still think they are somehow good if you read them as that, as passages, but I don't see them as part of a novel. It's obviously and ending, and its a beautiful love. But it's too obvious. That's why I don't like it. But it's not completely terrible, however, it is not good at all. Xie Yang is supposed to be from Mainland, but from the southern part, so his mother tongue would be Cantonese, not mandarin. But then again, why not making him a boy with big dreams, he would either go to Beijing or Shanghai, but I wanted to make him from a smaller province... and it made sense if he was from the Cantonese speaking part since he was studying in Hong Kong along with our main character. He must be insufferable, studying art or something, and French. The main character, I mean. Xie Yang must be super beautiful, but feminine, so sadly I don't think Yang Yang would be able to cast off this part, at least not in my mind. As for Luhan, he is from Beijing, and lately I don't love him... since he has been declared the richest Chinese celebrity...  he is different from his exo days :c well, but this is not and entry to cry about LuHan, anyways, LuHan is more like Xie Yang, still Cheney Chen could be another option. As for 'our protagonist' (haha, that's how they called a guy I used to date in China) I'm thinking in Thomas Brodie-Sangster, how is not French ik, or even Freddie Highmore with blonde hair. That's 'cause they remind me of a boy I saw in Bath once. He looked so pure and innocent, and shy and idk... he had an aura around him. Anyways, as for the thing I wrote, I would take off the last part if you asked me, but then I read the last lines. Just for those lines I left it there. Well, I'm feeling quite sick today, and I know nobody really cares about what I write (even less if it's in English) but, uhh, this is quite readable, for being something written on an iPhone at 2 am.

30 jun. 2018

Hoy he pensado, seriamente:

Que sería de mi vida sin ti, si no te hubiera conocido ese día, si te hubiera ignorado o si tú no me hubieras visto. Si no hubiera llegado esa persona que dijera “mira, te presento a...” nuestras vidas se pueden volver un qué tal si esto, qué tal si lo otro en un segundo... es la importancia del instante. La verdad es que yo no me imagino la vida sin ti aunque aparentemente así la viva. Pero desde que te conocí siempre has estado. Cuando veo las flores y pienso en los ramos que te faltó regalarme, o estoy en la noche a punto de dormir y a veces aún pienso en ti, como un pensamiento habitual y extraño. Tendrás esas cosas que te regalé? Tendrás todavía los momentos conmigo? Espero que duermas bien, espero que no tengas frío, espero que si lloraste sepas qué hay alguien a quien le importas, espero que simplemente no llores. He ido y venido, pero siempre regreso a un mismo punto. Un día antes y un día después de conocerte, de tenerte en mi vida. Yo era una niña. No te has ido, aquí sigues. En los boletos que no he comprado para ir a verte, en las dudas de volver a hablarnos, en el sentimiento que invade mi corazón cuando veo esos cursis videos de parejas reunidas, en las lagrimas que salen porque no somos nosotros, en el sentimiento amargo cuando acaba una historia de amor, en entender la última línea de Fireworks “¿me pregunto cómo será nuestra próxima cita?”, en creer en la historia del hilo rojo o que te voy a encontrar otro día, en otra vida o cuando pienso que no eras mi destino, pero si la piedra más bonita que encontré en el camino, en que ni tú ni yo sabíamos nada y en las charlas de borracha cuando digo “sí... hubo un chico”. Pero tu recuerdo es sólo mío y no lo quiero compartir con nadie y entonces me callo.

Estás todavía, cuando pienso que en diez años te voy a seguir extrañando o extrañando lo que pudo ser y no fue.

Te prometí que nunca iba a querer a nadie como a ti, pero no pensé tomarme la promesa tan en serio.

Como quiera es inevitable. Me he ido al otro lado del mundo, te he escrito en cuentos y poemas, he pensado en lo imposible de estar juntos y aún así siempre vuelvo al recuerdo.

Los ríos de Dublín, las montañas de Shanghai... la gente que llora, las horas que pasan, la gente que he amado, ahi estás para no volver pero tampoco para irte.

Ya ni siquiera se que eres. Si eres tú o una sombra en mi vida. La melancolía de una madrugada en Xalapa y miel y mi pan y mantequilla. Un soliloquio de Lars von Trier o el dolor que siento cuando alguien me lastima mientras me hace el amor.

Eres esa cosa rara en mi corazón que todavía me saca lágrimas cuando escucho a Joaquín Sabina... yo te solté la mano, pero extrañamente, siento que siempre regreso a ti... aunque tú no estés ahí.

Todos tenemos un amor un poco extraño, creo. A veces pienso, sobretodo estos últimos días, y no sé porque, que hubiera sido si hubiéramos seguido juntos, o nos hubiéramos encontrado en otras circunstancias. Pero qué hubiera sido. Pienso en su presencia en mi vida y en mis caminos. Estoy feliz con mi vida, con ese recuerdo importante que no se va a borrar. Pienso que no era el momento, que está bien que no esté... pienso que otra vida puede ser, en esta no... él no habla cantonés, nunca me hubiera acompañado a comer dumplings a las 4 de la mañana, ni íbamos a cantar juntos en Ibiza...pienso que no... no era en esta vida, eran cosas de niños. Yo lo tengo en canciones de Natalia Lafourcade, en días de mucho viento e historias de primeros besos y ahí está bien.