Westwood

In the 5 insomniac hours I just suffered due to weirdly delayed jetlag, I did a lot of mental exercise – I read poetry, I planned out my post-graduation years (going to do a Kate-Winslet-in-Eternal-Sunshine and work at Barnes and Noble in New York (“Book slave there for, like, 4 years now!”)) and I thought about home. I surprised myself this week at how tragic it felt to leave Singapore and come back to school.

I don’t miss the constant jungle sweat-flow and I don’t miss feeling like I’m just drifting through time. I do miss the word mooncake. I miss the smell of our spectacular tropical thunderstorms, I miss my new favorite way to get home (cycling from Dakota MRT station, a full moon glistening in the canal, a breeze). I miss public transport – during my last weekend I actually thought to myself, “Hmm, I didn’t get to ride as many buses as I had wanted to” – is that dumb? I miss that rush of comfort and happiness as I cross over some imaginary boundary in the country to what signifies “The East” in my mind. I love The East – smell of sand and saltwater and leaves. That said, I feel safe almost everywhere in Singapore; driving around Los Angeles with my Dad these past few days, I realized how much of this place I just don’t know. This city still scares me, it’s so rough and wild and big.

New term! I'm always so busy here, it's best just to go from day to day and try not to worry too much. Rush rush fun rush fun.