Sometimes it feels like I’m waiting for inspiration when I write. Like I’m waiting for a specific mood, or a specific song to come on and guide me through an entry. Lately, that inspiration seems to avoid me. I keep trying to write about things that I feel I should write about, instead of the things I want to write about. Every time I search my head for the proper mood or mindset, it’s only memories that appear.

And they surface like photographs, each one a still frame capturing an experience, expressed in sound, warmth, light, and odour. I’m on the streets of Hong Kong again, surrounded by people, browsing through the knick-knacky stores with the heat of the sun soaking through my shirt. I’m skating on the Canal, mapping the imperfections of the ice as I glide across them, the night sky burning with the orange of winter. I’m wondering through the mall of my hometown, enjoying the strange familiarity of a place I frequented so long ago, hoping I don’t bump into an ex. I’m in uniform, clutching the lapels of my blazer, as I step out from the heat of grandiose wooden doors into the snow-washed quad. I’m on the bus to New York, trying to figure out which passengers are coming or going, wondering where my own journey would take me.

I fight against these memories, trying to write about something more relevant. In the end, I write about nothing, and I can’t fight against it anymore. I have to write the things I want, inspired by the things I think. I have to let go one more time.

From myself, instead of others.