I Don’t Know Which Branch the Dragonfly Will Alight on

The sun has scorched all tears dry,

burning, stinging.

Fearful of the coming summer, the damp air clutches my stomach. The astringent bitterness of cobblestones, the muddy fishy scent by the pond, stirring silvery purple nerves,

tickling helplessly, rushing into the nostrils.




Never having known, never ceasing

I don’t know which branch the dragonfly will alight on.




我不知道蜻蜓會停在哪個枝頭

太陽烤乾了所有的淚水,

灼燒著,刺痛著。

對即將到來的夏天感到恐懼,潮濕的空氣抓住我的胃袋,鵝卵石髮澀的苦味,池塘邊混合著泥沙的

魚腥味,挑動著銀紫色的神經,搔癢著,無可奈何地湧入鼻腔。




不曾知曉,不曾停歇

我不知道蜻蜓會停在哪個枝頭。

As feelings pile up with nowhere to go, nothing left but the overpowering urge to blow them out through tobacco.




Then the smell that clings to my clothes afterwards, the scratch in my throat, my contact lenses gone dry.




Out tomorrow is that moment when we lie down on the cold, grey marble floor and gaze at the sky.




發澀的喉嚨

積攢了一些無可去處的情緒的時候，只有這股強烈的，無可奈何的慾望想要借助煙草將之呼出。然後是附著在衣物上的餘味，
發澀的喉嚨，乾涸的隱形眼鏡，




我們的明天是在生硬的大理石地板躺下望向天空的那一刻。

This urge I have resurfaces at each year’s end, to dig out Notes of a Crocodile and read it over and over again. It probably has something to do with my own recent entanglements with love. I don’t know how you’re meant to love someone. I love, but my heart isn’t beating. Am I just in love with being loved? My confusion reflects the relationships I let slip through the cracks. I couldn’t hold them right. A vague, inexplicable pride deafens me, just to feed my own vanity, and I couldn’t hear the deepest voice inside me anymore.




…我並不愛你。




I hold someone else’s precious, heavy feelings that weigh me down, right here in New York. The past six months feel like something scooped out another chunk of my memory. I’ve forgotten so much. Forgot that flickering feeling. Forgot myself. Can’t remember why I turned love away. Can’t remember why I walked away from it. Can’t remember when I stopped caring. Lost relationships, over and over, became short blades. Something tied a thread to each hilt and gave a sharp tug, driving them into me. As long as I stayed perfectly still, they didn’t sting. I watched this blade take root in my flesh, but the blood didn’t taste like anything. I let myself collapse in it, staring at the ground.




All of it, all of it came down to that one choice back then. And if none of this was my fault? If I just blamed someone else now, would I finally be free? That’s just a cowardly way to dodge responsibility. Back then, I definitely lost something. Something I can’t quite put into words. I dragged myself through a dim autumn in that disgrace. On a drizzly evening, without saying goodbye to anyone, I hastily packed a bag and got on a plane, leaving that land just before the snow covered everything.




Maybe it’s only now, recovering a little, that I can finally lick these old wounds clean. Writing this down, honestly.

If you ask me, did I ever take those blades out? The answer is no. I was obsessed with picking them out before: Out with the old, in with the new. But they’re still here.
They’re a part of me now.




請化為我心臟跳動的一部分。




Finishing Notes of a Crocodile one moment, then stumbling right into the aftermath the next. It was like finding a sequel to a series I thought had ended long ago. I read on greedily, hungry for what came next. I kept wanting to write something. Certain parts resonated with me, always pulling me back to those high school years when I was most steeped in literature. Looking back now, standing at the edge of that literary world, I remember how a friend of mine gave a tug, and we both tumbled into the swamp together. Clutching that vanity of reading obscure books, I bought Notes of a Crocodile and Last Words from Montmartre one after the other. The writing was so intense that it was almost manic, burning me and leaving me speechless. Back then, I didn’t have that kind of awareness. But I was mesmerized by it all the same.




How could someone bear their entire self like that in words? So beautiful … and she was in so much pain, too.




Writing all this, I realize I haven’t even touched on what I initially
set out to write. The words just took me somewhere else as I was putting them down.