i believe in fate
Over my break, I went travelling—some of it as part of a group, and some of it solo.
In China, I went with a few girls to make name beads. The beads were red and delicately engraved with gold characters, sorted in boxes by their first letter. The first bead that my eyes focused on was the one with the character of my name on it. I told one of the girls about it. It’s fate, she said.
In Vietnam, I went to eat dinner at a place where all the normal tables were full, so they sat me at the bar. Why aren’t you drinking anything, the guy seated next to me asked. He had already asked me if I spoke English and told me he was Romanian. I’m not thirsty, I said. A few minutes later he turned to me again. What drink do you want, he said. I don’t want any drink, I responded. No, he said firmly, I am buying you a drink. I’m going now, I said, and I slid off my seat and glided to the cashier. I left without looking back. It was rainy and dark but I still wandered the streets a bit before going back to the hotel, walking in gutters since there were no sidewalks.
By the time I had arrived at my hotel in Thailand, I had learnt to stop talking. I only really had to speak a handful of times a day, and even then, only one sentence was required before I could revert back to nodding or shaking my head. Every time I opened my mouth to speak, it was dry and raspy from disuse. I was alone, and I felt both lonely and free.
The illusion of love was starting to wear off on me. I started having frequent dreams which were uncharacteristically vivid and which fused themselves in my memory in such a way that I struggled to distinguish what was real and fake, which thoughts were a product of my consciousness and which came to me in my sleep. I began finding it more difficult to write, which seemed to be because I’d stopped being so sentimental. I couldn’t tell if it was a good thing or a bad thing but I wished I could see the art in things more like I’d used to.