I'm losing myself in the hours: noon time at work on a Saturday, three in the afternoon, seven o’clock dinner, 10pm banter with co-workers, by the time 1am, 2am, 3am rolls around, things get a little quiet and everyone a little antsy. I play a sad, dream pop song from co-worker R for the 10th time and ask Q and Y if it’s driving them crazy. When I finally step out of the office, a feeling that I may have just stumbled out from hutong dance party flashes before me. That’s the story of late. After maybe two weeks of unsettling sanity at work, it's back to proposal madness, back to missing people. I think it's the opportunity cost that drives me from drifting party to party, people to people. In the end, the transformation of a girl who can’t hold her liquor and who loves those damned day activities in New York City is somehow morphing into a drunkard, junkie, a night-owl, and a little careless with people. None of the above labels are true, even if half of my friends half mean it, but it is what it is.
These obvious changes, on a superficial level, does unnerve me a little bit, like having everything you knew about yourself turn inside out, and you're looking into a world of yourself that doesn't seem quite you. Yet, underneath it all, I know I'm just fine because I still burn. I burn with a rage to succeed. To pull overtime for things that I care about, for people I care about. I just want it all. I want the rush of all nighters. The pride after a successful presentation. Friends who move me. Conversations that go deep. Dances on roofs. Beijing, and all that it stands for.
Mostly, I just want to calm down, do laundry, lay down on my bed, stay there, so when I wake up I'll have enough energy to love a great deal in an overly emotional, enthusiastic, thankful way.