---

Sitting at my dark little space, I look at people shouting in the pool, silhouettes twisting on the walls of the disco-light-lit room, and listen to the commotion - as if protected inside a vulnerable, invisible bubble. It's a strange feeling to witness the group (which I was told to be a part of) from a distance and be able to silently name their false sense of cohesion. An ant scurries on my left foot. Just five minutes ago, I also scurried away from the rows of white tables sandwiched between the heat of bodies swinging and the coldness of water in this windy night.

Ken and Helen share not only this corner with me, but also the intention to seek a space for some unrelated thoughts. Every word of their conversation about the situation in Zimbabwe comes and stays in my mind, despite my preference not to listen to or care about it. Sometimes I too question the reasons of my indifference for politics; and "because I know that I won't be able to do anything about it" - what I have been telling people - appears to be not much more than an excuse, although there is a long story behind it. In fact, I have come to understand that I am not capable of caring about everything; and choices have been unconsciously made. Thoughts are therefore kept, and words are muted at the tip of the tongue.

Real as everything before my eyes is, I feel no affinity with it and perceive no difference in emotions between seeing this and watching the party scenes in "white people's movies" that my childhood friends back in my hometown always looked up to and dreamed about. "Unreal" is the right word. But of course, nothing happening in this play yard is truly real.

The more I look at it, the more I'm sure that I don't belong there.

---

Every time I witness someone standing in front of the cafeteria, pouring left-overs from their plates into the gray plastic bins, I shiver. The sound of dry rice, meat bones, potatoes, and various other things falling onto each other remains in my mind as I'm there, still, looking at the medley of food and the hollow spot where stood my schoolmate just some seconds ago.

The food thrown away is no different from the food lying on my plate when I walk out of the queue with the familiar blue dining tray in my hands, and sit down at a table.

On my left, Tendai buries himself in a Stephen King's book, put on top of the tattered Bible he always carries. His right hand is still clutching the folks - not for the sake of eating, but to avoid the tedious idleness. "Hi, Cat." He lifts his eyes off the small-printed letters, lets his hand free from the silverware and reaches for some water.

Robert, sitting opposite, stirs the rice nonchalantly while Youkey, with her vegetarian portion, settles herself on my right side and starts praying, with her eyes close.

"How can you eat that?" Asks Robert smilingly.

"Huh?"

"Rice with nothing else. That's like... I don't know, maybe I can try to do that with Asian rice, but not with this kind of rice. It's horrible."

"Well, at least it's still something to eat."

"Not for human. No human can eat this kind of shit." Tendai suddenly decides to join the conversation.

"Humanness isn't defined by what you eat, you know?"

"But there are still certain things that cannot be associated with being human, and eating this is one." He raises his left hand and makes a gesture - just to quickly lowers it back to flip through the pages, trying to get back to where he was before. But the moves are too sudden that the book loses its balance and falls off the Bible's top.

I go on with the folks and knives, until what's left in front of me is an empty plate. But sitting there, in the yellow-light-lit room, I just cannot understand it. I can't understand how he can close his eyes, cross his fingers, thank God for the food given to him - and then throw it away right in the next moment.

I can never understand that.

---

Darkness and this kind of music go well together.

Sometimes I wonder what people in the school do at night. Some study. Some work. Some go out. Some gather and socialize. Some party. Some just do nothing and think. Some sleep. Some weep.

I write.

"Have you ever thought about being a writer?" More than one person have asked me so. "No," I always answered without hesitation, "writing and music are two things that I never want to be professional in. I enjoy them, and thus I don't want them to have anything to do with work or money."

"I thought you always said you'd like to work with things you're enthusiastic about?" - to that they always said. And they were right - it will be such a painful tedium if you have to commit your life to something you dislike. But that's a totally different kind of enjoyment. Sometimes they merge together, sometimes they need to be distinguished.

"So what do you want to be?" is another classic question. "I don't know" has been its classic answer. Many of my friends back home, who had spent hours searching the internet for predictions of future trendy and well-paid careers before filling out their university examination forms, often called my lack of self-knowledge immaturity. I disagreed.

"I just want to be a human."

"Don't be silly," said my best friend once, "it's high time you think seriously about your career, so that you don't make any stupid choice."

"What are the stupid choices?" I asked her. "And what's wrong with wanting to be a human? It's already the most difficult thing to be. As long as I can be one, it doesn't really matter if I am something else."

I heard a lullaby echoing in my head. She'd been lost; but despite my attempts to seek for her melodies, she didn't want to find her way home. She just stayed there, haunting me, filling my mind with contemplations - to the point of unhealthy depression. Who am I?

I had been asking everyone about their identities, but never found an answer for myself. There may be a good reason for that - and that reason can be expressed in different ways, depending on how you view it. I may not be who I am yet; or, I am just a temporary state, not a concept to be defined.

In either way, just like everything else, I change from day to day, time to time. And once in a while, we do something wrong without even knowing it... and we always get something out of that. Like me, like today.

(i did not want it to happen i have no reason to i turned round but i saw nobody and heard my name no more so i thought that it was just me and went on walking i honestly did not see her waving because I was overwhelmed because I was not very conscious whatever reason or excuse it might be but i swear i did not see her)

I just learned that: there's a difference between knowing what the right things are, and actually doing them. In that same logic, wanting to be responsible is one thing, and actually being responsible is another.

"It's just not like how you usually are." QQ said to me - and I took it as an implied compliment. He might have overestimated me, or he might have gotten a somewhat inaccurate impression of me through our talk about general responsibility the other day. And me too, maybe I also overestimated myself. I thought I knew what responsibility was and tried to be responsible. But did I?

I always strolled about our campus, with my notes on my hand, thinking that it would have been such a waste of time to be at the ongoing residence meeting - since I would do nothing and gain nothing. But wasn't it my responsibility, as a resident, to be there?

I had been always unwilling to stop my work and go to check-ins, since there would be basically no punishment. But the staffs, some of which had to stay late at school, fulfilled their job of being there and checking people in. Then wasn't it my responsibility to leave my room, walk a few steps, and show myself up?

Wasn't it my responsibility to be on time on every commitment I had?

Wasn't it my responsibility to let she know that I couldn't get the CDs, so that she could plan accordingly?

Wasn't it my responsibility to email him and let he know that I was alright, so that he wouldn't worry?

... and numerous different things that aren't labeled "responsibility", but are indeed so. Not a matter of rule-abiding or being kind.

A kid I have been.

And just then, I realized that there existed a gap between "them all" and me. I did enjoy quality time with people. I liked many of them. But, should I do, who would I cry to, on this campus? No one.

Why is that?

Stupid question.

But I like it this way, I like the core of me and what I want to become. I know, I can't be an insider - not that I want to.

Living is easy with eyes closed
Misunderstanding all you see
Oh it's getting hard to be someone but it all works out
It doesn't matter much to me.