I’ve been stand­ing on the bal­cony of the fourth floor apart­ment, watch­ing peo­ple walk around in the mid­dle of the night. If there’s one thing that’s always defined Hong Kong to me, it’s the con­stant traf­fic you hear when you’re sleep­ing, mostly light buses run­ning on diesel, and taxis. Across the street, the rooms of the St. Theresa’s Hospital are light­ing up one by one. The sun hasn’t crested yet, but the streets are becom­ing busier by the minute as the sky bright­ens in notice­able degrees.

Boundary street balcony — sunrise

Practicing Tai Chi usu­ally helps me sleep and cen­ter myself, but today it’s only a reminder of how painfully sore my hip sock­ets are from run­ning around air­ports with all my lug­gage. You never truly appre­ci­ate the short form until you try prac­tice in a Hong Kong apartment.

I’ve been up for hours now, and I’m exhausted but wide awake. It’s the jet lag, the med­ica­tion, a rest­less mind, or all three.

Those who know me know that I’ve always felt that Hong Kong is my home­land, even though I wasn’t born here. But for some rea­son, it hasn’t sunk in that I’m here yet.

I guess I’ve been going through some hard times. I never really thought about it until some­one brought it to my atten­tion. The heart­break, the col­i­tis, the grand­mother, the dis­il­lu­sion­ment. Somewhat major things, I sup­pose, that weren’t in the front of my mind. Maybe I haven’t been let­ting myself think about them. Or maybe they’ve been affect­ing me with­out real­iz­ing it.

The writ­ten word appears to be the only reli­able thing I have left. My friends are all away. Everyone’s asleep, and I’ve been cry­ing. I’ve been cry­ing in the heart of this beau­ti­ful city.

This city brings my guard down. This city lets me feel.