Untitle 2

Why so many things in my life happened through the course of an evening party... I asked myself that question a lot.

It was an independent media website launching event last October, of which I was a volunteer. Nothing fancy. Time? 7. Location? A dingy Irish pub where the bouncer didn't even check the ID. All the leftists and local labour organizers were invited. There were neither hard drugs nor anorexic models snorting cocaine in the bathroom stalls, no DJ, no techno music. No one was kissing and dry humping each other, at least to my knowledge. Just lots of cheap beer with the greasy smell of pub food hanging in the air, and people who read Marx and Lenin and Mao. I was kinda tired of that crowd, so I wasn't in the mood to kiki that day, or any other days, for a long time. Everyone looked the same, and hazy, and blurry. I happily took on the tabling role, where I only needed to briefly greet people, sell the merch, and collect the donations. Only a few friendly faces lingered to make small talk with me. I left the table only to bump a cheap cigarette smoke from someone I barely knew. Sometimes, cigarette was the only thing that kept me going.

When you weren't participating in a party, you became the observer. I was disembodied. I spent hours and hours watching the crowd. So many familiar faces, but all were estranged. Some memories came rushing back through my spine, about some afternoons and evenings I couldn't remember. When I was their friend, and they were mine. Some were more than friends.

I didn't know why I stayed for the whole evening. I didn't even know why I came. I only wrote one news article about a cleaning worker who died on the job at my university. It somehow became the most popular article so far in the West Coast branch. The guy who was in charge of the media organization was a pain in the ass. He kept asking me if I paid for the merch hat. I told him to check his banking account for my transaction. "You don't like me very much, aren't you?" I asked him with a grin on my face. "Of course I do like you!" was his reply. We got into a fight the next day on the group chat about new people who wanted to volunteer for the media. I haven't returned since.

K. and her roommate walked through the door toward my check-in table. They were my new social circle. One of a few friendships without any past travesty and resentment. K. told me a dirty joke about stripping naked and left all her clothes there with me. Her roommate scoffed at her for making me blush. K. was neither pleasant nor agreeable, both as a friend and a comrade. But somehow, she was always sweet to me. I couldn't count how many sex jokes we made at each other, despite the 10-year age gaps. I thought about it for a while, but I think that day I solidified my feelings for K.

I was also taking a faint interest in a new person. They've been coming to our political studies. I didn't make a move on them. I didn't want to. That part of me was dead. I couldn't risk jeopardizing this new social circle again. Toward the end of the party, I saw K. and the new person, obviously flirting, in the corner of the room. We were in the same room, but I felt like we were so far away. I tried to swallow a lump in my throat. I wasn't sure whether K. or the other person.

In just a moment, the other person would be walking toward me. We sat and talked for a while. I showed them my writings. In another moment, K. was also walking toward us. She would sit on the right side of me. I was stuck in the middle. K. rested her head on my shoulder, and suddenly I held my breath so she wouldn't move away. Cause I wanted her to stay.

Cause I wanted her to stay.

Cause I wanted her to stay.

I was confused and sitting still, but no one else seemed to notice. To this day, nothing has really happened. And I'm glad it stays that way. There is a hole inside me that no amount of joy and happiness could fill up. Maybe cigarettes can.

That one night when me and K. walking along the riverside park, the wind blew hard, and it hurt my nose. Under the street lights, K. looked like the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. We were talking about some metaphysics and philosophical things. I always feel hard to truly connect with other Marxists and labour organizers outside of our organizing, due to their uninterest in other forms of literature and fiction. But surprisingly, K., of all people, had lots of good thoughts about this topic.

For the first time ever, I told K. that I felt like I'd lived so many lives before.

"Since I was a kid, like 5 or something, I just got this weird, nostalgic feeling that I've seen this scenery before. Like the sunlight pouring on the schoolyard. I've seen them some faraway time, even before I was an embryo. I know reincarnations and shit like that sounds dumb and undialectical, but maybe I was alive many times already."

"Well, it's not dumb. Nobody knows everything." She responded.

These days for me are just studying Math, more Math, Arabic, French, walking to the grocery store, jazz, book. Rinse and repeat. In the middle of them, there's still space for K. Well, not the physical, real person K. But imaginary K. in my mind. I lost count of how much I think about her every day. I could be lying on the beach, on the most glorious sunny day ever. Surrounded by the hot water, cold sand, cedar wood, fig, and the skins of beautiful people, I'd still catch myself thinking about K. My imaginary line K. Wishing her to be there next to me. At this point, I'm not sure if it's K., the person that I'm in love with, or just my imagination.

Me and K. really don't make sense together. I know eventually she would hated me and my idealistic, idling way of living. She would hated me for being a people-pleaser, she would hated me for all my vanity and indulgences. And I'd resent her for being a judgmental and heartless cunt. And people would disapprove of our 10-year-age difference. I don't care about all that. Just for a moment, I know we could be good together.

I would never dare to show K., or anyone, my writings. It's a scary feelings to let someone know how much you hate them, even more, how much you like them. Well, I like K. more than she could ever know. More than I could ever show. I hate that my affection is on K., even though that's not what she needs.