When it rains in Taipei my life becomes an Art-house film. All the colour disappears. The soft pitter-patter on my umbrella is the soundtrack. Everyone relates to the monotony.
I’m in a classroom,
I’m on a train,
I’m in a house.
Staring blankly at a screen, trying with increased difficulty to find a combination of pixels that amuses me. I do this every five seconds. The keyboard is cold. I have no use for it, my input is unremarkable. I only watch.
I’m everything, but
I am the only character.
Occasionally, I’ll speak. The people around me steal a glance. The bridge to their understanding barely exists, it is merely a tightrope over a canyon. Their smirks are ambiguous. I’m unsure whether to be embarrassed or bask in the momentary attention. I do neither.
I’m eating lunch,
I’m drinking a drink,
Smoking a cigarette.
With a rushed pat over my pockets, I discover I have no lighter. I borrow one from a passing man. Before I finish, he begins walking.
He glances back for a second,
He leaves without another word. I ponder. Maybe his life is also an Art-house film.
I’m on an escalator,
I’m on a street,
I’m on a toilet.
My vulnerable self is exposed. This state of semi-nakedness being, somehow, more revealing. With no smart phone, I can only sit and think. I hear the rain falling outside.