Hong Kong is really noisy. But everyone goes home sometime. And at night, when I'm heading home, usually I hear the shutters rolling down the storefront, the constant beeping from the traffic lights, the trams going ding ding!, the mtr doors tooting shut, the whoosh of the train running along the tracks, that irritating sound for the blind from the escalators, the general hum of the streets, the chorus of greetings from the door people, Lily barking at the door, and finally finally, just the quiet whisper of the air conditioning, with the occasional tune of people messaging me on msn.:)That's how Hong Kong sounds at night.-- Elizabeth, on her blog.
I wish I had this sense of place. Or perhaps it's also a sense of time. I'm desperately trying to extract a word from the air that can accurately describe how I'm feeling now, but nothing ever quite fits without distorting or oversimplifying all the joy and the pain.
I need some kind of renaissance; I can't churn out writing that I feel satisfied with, and I'm looking at the poems from the past with newfound deprecation. We try to think of what propels us to write, and maybe this is just a stage of finding a voice and whatnot.
This is when noise becomes music. (But music does not become noise; I am not that corny.)
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