Bruises

I tried to do handstands for you
I tried to do headstands for you
Every time I fell on you yeah every time I fell
I tried to do handstands for you but every time I fell for you
I'm permanently black and blue, permanently blue

So I've started to write again. Something very nostalgic about writing is that in my teens I used to write religiously everyday on 'Xanga' (it's a blog site in the 'dear diary' generation, now obsolete) I started to have a group of audiences and was fortunately invited to write for various culture and literature magazine back home in HK. It was my oblivion at that time, because I first arrived to UK when I was 17 and I wrote a lot, a lot, of course, in Chinese. But soon I gradually stopped writing after 19/20 years old. I guess it was because I first started university in London. Writing seems to be less significant to me, or I guess the sensuality has changed alongside the teenage melancholy diminished. To be truthful, most importantly, I started to lost my mother tongue and I became hesitant when it come to writing - what if my grammar is bad? What if my vocabulary is limited. (I don't have a bank of synonyms of the adjective 'Nice' or 'Beautiful')

8 years later, sitting here now, feeling blue. I guess it is time to pick up on writing again. Maybe because watching T2 has given me strength - If Spud can write why can't I? Maybe I will just write as I think (I now predominantly think in English) As far as I know, noone really read this blog anyways, so why should I worry about mistakes? (It's a good way to be better in writing English...as well as readying? Now I am still reading a lot...) In the meanwhile, for more personal thoughts I might as well just write it down and send it to my personal gmail address.

Martin used to say to me: 'One of my life aspirations is to collect as many anecdotes as one can'. I remember we were having a cigarettes, walking around a graveyard towards where her grandmother was buried, in a village in Norwegian midlands. The reason why I specifically mentioned about this village is because this village is literally 'in the middle of nowhere'. This place doesn't even have any post code. As the first time I paid a visit, Martin instructed me - 'Beth, just take the coach from Oslo Torp airport then get off at [XXXXX] bustop, then I will meet you next to the big tree'. (Note: Norway is basically full of trees.) I was very worried when I got to the bus, but miraculous, I saw Martin, his father and his dog were walking along the path. I was banging on the window, waving at them - and they noticed! Thank god, otherwise I would be ended up in the middle of noway in Norway truly...

I will start writing again as often as I can.

Anyways, I am recently feeling blue. I guess writing is helping. Maybe it's just the words babbling between lines and paragraphs.