Somewhere between now and then I’ve become more private. The old self, that is less private, has left and locked himself in a cabinet, or else he is busy navigating the dense streets of old Hong Kong, and only when he’s finished whatever task he set out for himself will he return. Personality comes and goes, in waves. We are all different according to the position of the hands on the clock, and yet the clock is circular, and so at specific times we return to the selves we once were, or still are, and inhabit that body for a while.
I look forward to September, because I am going back to university, and now I feel almost like I am only preparing myself for that moment. It’s as if I have changed into my gym clothes, put talcum powder on my hands, and now only have to push a great concrete block from one side of the room to the other, except that the delivery of the block has been postponed (the truck is turned around on a one-way street somewhere) and I am anxious to start. It’s better not to be too impatient. But I am impatient, without structure; even if to all outward appearances I am more patient than at other times you have known me.
A signifier of my impatience: I’ve neglected personal correspondence, as well as this blog, and yet I seem to have all the time in the world for Twitter, an application that does nothing for me and that I am not even sure the purpose of. What it does is concentrate my life, before narrated in paragraph blocks here, and elsewhere even longer, into short, unreflective, pithy statements that only serve to depress me. Most of the time I don’t post them; it’s enough that I have thought them and agonised over their uselessness. Where before long blog entries sprang from nowhere and composed themselves in my head, now my ruminations are limited to 140 character glossy nonsense.
It’s not so bad, I guess: I only have to change my habits.