There is always a part you cannot own, claim, make belong. That’s life.
I do not know why others travel – be it tourism, escapism, or adventure. I never clarify a reason for myself either.
Maybe I want to get a break from reality, go against norms set for me by others, ignore the golden rule of ‘money’ over ‘spirit’. Maybe I want to lay my overthinking mind to rest; give it a secret garden to swim in, to wander; go beyond the boundaries.
From the moment you step out of the plane and into the weather, travel offers awareness: unfamiliar language starts to emerge, unexpected encounters draw you in, and unknown depths of culture peep out from everywhere. But travelling itself cannot be a cure, a medicine, a therapy. You have to be there, actively participating, to allow for change.
What’s a better way to know a place than to be in it? What’s a more direct way to know yourself than to take yourself on a trip? It brings embodied transformation even you can’t fully notice. A growth hidden from the bush, a flower surprising in summer.
That’s why I dreamed to travel longer – to turn the duration of my trip from weeks to months, believing time will immerse me with locals, allow me to sprout in a foreign land, even if I’m not growing up there.
I dreamed I could do that. Yet, every imagination is proof of imagination.
Traveling alone, without proficiency of the language, in a kinetic city, turns you into an exception. You may always be a tourist, not knowing how to read the room, gazing past curious but indifferent eyes. A conversation you half understand, but never fully participate in, as you will be leaving soon – all connections are just once.
It makes me wonder about the spirit of ownership. Imagine the old conqueror, hunting down animals and taking skins and horns as their victory. We too buy the foreign antiques to prove we’ve been there. It’s part of laying claim to a place, but not the kind I want.
How much do we know our possessions? We’ve been advertised to believe that goods represent value, a house promises a family, diet meals make for an attractive physicality, a job equals success. We forget that owning a book is not equal to reading one. Owning something in a capitalistic way is the easiest; owning through intimacy and belonging is harder to find.
My first week in Tokyo, I realise there are parts of the city I will never own. Exploration by walking around my guesthouse offers unlimited discoveries: stylish shops, tranquil cafes, events posted on noticeboards. My month-long travel won’t be able to hold them all – nor should I try to.
During one of these walks, an abandoned piece of furniture captures my eyes, a symbol of all my sense as an outsider in the city. It is a cupboard made with wood and layers of rattan. For a moment, I think I can take this second-hand furniture back to Hong Kong. We can, little by little, create a space full of Japanese vibes.
This imagination lasts for a second, myself stood in front of the street, hearing whispers of Japanese pass nearby. I offer comfort to my thoughts: What would happen if we owned? There is no space to place.
I, a person who is poor at maintenance, do not know how to keep the furniture in good shape. If lucky, I may preserve it, but at worst I may need to witness a loved piece ruined by my own hand. What if water splashed on it, what if mould grew?
These silent thoughts haunt me further when I think of the craftsman who made it with tenderness and care, decisiveness on his hand. I do not feel I have the attitude of appreciation and confidence for this cupboard – a spirit I feel every Japanese person has for things: respect with care.
I decide to turn away, cannot place my gaze longer, knowing this cupboard does not belong to me. Just like how I do not belong to the city.
Since then, this nostalgic thought has been with me. For every delicate traditional item I see, every event I join, every conversation I hear, I wonder my ‘appropriate’-ness.
Some may say there’s god in every item. Some may clean and wipe the floor every time a class ends. Some may say thank you to a space. What if I don’t notice? What if I enter without respect and somehow violate something they treasure?
Not to abuse a virtue, I shall not take it casually. Not to break a routine, I shall not imprint myself as an intruder. Not making false commitments, I will remain silent about the next meeting.
Silently, I overreact within myself. Meanwhile, I am also wondering, What is the meaning of owning?
I figure it out in one afternoon:
<To own is to witness>
How sweet when you pour thoughts and emotion to one thing
Turning it into a tangible of the intangible
The spirts of care, detail within a hand
lure the empty ones come closer
How could I clearly own you, without knowing your name
your history, stories, marks clear and hidden
How could I say I know you without looking you through
What is owing about, if I, like every other visitor am
satisfied with single photos and short visits
Sadly, there isn’t much to offer
A gaze can only stare one at once
//
<Wouldn’t mind to spend the rest of life>
A gardener will watch their flower, from growth to bloom, with care
An astrologist will watch the sky, those tiny little dots upon the dark, with amusement
A lover will watch their lover, time after time, details with details, with desire
A gaze fallen upon to know, with tenderness and observant
nurturing with it, willing those who have been gazed at, stay alive and bright
That almost appear, if one day it vanishes,
will be like a life is gone from you.
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