TWO DRAFTS
Zihan Chen
I am bored and tired of talking about language, and I can’t remember how many times I’ve had to repeat that boring narrative. The story about how I found my german school, how I decided to go to Germany. I try to remember, even if it’s hard. What happened in the last five years. I can’t recall anymore. Suddenly the conversations turn to names, yes, it’s still sadly about language. I smiled stiffly, explaining the rule in Chinese, one pronunciation can mean many words. We suddenly stood up, probably because my feet were telling me it was time to go home, and I was glad I hadn’t taken off my jacket when I arrived. So, I started to drink as fast as I could the water I’d been holding for ten minutes, but it didn’t quench my thirst at all.
Two men in their thirties talking loudly about politics and about Trump’s election, their voices shrill and harsh, forcing me out of the door, step by step. Sensitivity is always a little bit annoying at moments like this, making me confused if it’s my body trying to escape or my thoughts. We were still standing in the dark exhibition space for another ten minutes. I gave up on articulating one-sidedness about politics and narratives, that history is always first chosen, then written, and all of these words rushed into my stomach with water.
I can’t say if I hated his perfume, but I didn’t like it, and the bright blue eyes. It’s a combination that doesn’t make it easy for me to believe what he’s saying.
Voices like two heavy doors, pushing me hard. But out of politeness, I said goodbye with a fake hug. The smell, like a pretentious art shop. I hope I can forget it tomorrow. I finally got out, like a cowardly rabbit, but i knew I was only pretending to be weak.
The shrill sound of police cars cutting through the streets, and the buses kept pushing and pushing on the way to the car. I had a quick breakfast after the swimming: yoghurt with cashews and blueberries. I didn’t take my lighter with me so I won’t be able to smoke. I miss chamomile and peppermint tea. The discomfort from caused by smoking factory-made cigarettes hasn’t disappeared for two weeks. “You don’t need expensive things to pretend you’re more of an adult woman.” I murmured to myself. Suddenly the perpetual lump in Cherly’s throat came to my mind. I paused for a moment, and my thoughts flew away, in the direction where my eyelashes fluttered.
I find myself thinking that writing is always a good thing. I try to calm myself down, yet I experience that same restlessness again. Walking into that building, glancing around uneasily, unable to sit down, not knowing what work I should do. Then, pretending to be patient, I organize my bag, step out of the door, and choose a station farther away, as if pretending that walking longer makes me a little busier. I don’t know how long I’ll have to live with this timid version of myself in this lifetime. It’s been nearly six months now, with 2025 just around the corner—a third of life gone. Still, every day, I have to strain to cough up the liquid in my throat.
The fortunate thing is, I’ve gone two or three days without smoking—though yesterday, I slowly started again, even though I’d been feeling lighter. I’ve begun to cherish the moments at night when I prepare to fall asleep, as if my thoughts can finally be interrupted, putting aside all mine dissatisfaction and anxiety. In sleep, surely, people don’t think about the future, do they? But I do remember last night’s dream. Its theme was dormitory life, though it wasn’t a real dormitory. It was a shared house with many girls. We slept in bunk beds—four beds in one room, two in another. I still remember waking up and feeling my courage to speak loudly had dissolved. My skin, pressed between the blanket, was damp with a fine layer of sweat.
When the sun came out yesterday, after being sick at home for five days, I felt for the first time like going out to meet those I know, and those I don’t, to talk about trivial things—not people who genuinely care about each other, just the ones who gather casually—at that castle. I recall the women on the 704 tram, wrapped in orange, yellow, and red scarves, one of them waving at me to say hello. It wasn’t just a polite smile, though smiles, no matter what, are always good. But with the wave of a hand, it felt like the distance between people shortened just a little.
To pass the boredom of being sick, I’ve taken up the hobby of supermarket browsing again—though it’s not really a hobby. Supermarkets in Germany, whether Asian, Turkish, or local, all share the same trait of being packed with goods. Yet there are so many things I know I’ll never glance at. I know where the milk, vegetables, bread, and meat are, and that’s enough. Even though I claim the purpose is to browse; I never linger long. The other day, at the Japanese supermarket, I stayed a bit longer but didn’t buy much. The packaging there is always beautiful, though the prices are not. I remember the cashier nodding and smiling, wishing me a pleasant day.
On the way there, the girl sitting across from me stared at her bottle of Orangina for a full three minutes. It reminded me of all those little moments I’ve had in supermarkets. After three years in Germany, I miss those days filled with curiosity, the hidden corners, and the vitality flowing through the trams. I remember the older woman sitting next to me with her canvas bag full of colorful pins. I remember which corner has the bakery I love. Cities contain countless lives. I don’t remember who said this, but I wrote it down in my notes: “In their view, civilization is an ideal—universal, boundless—while culture has boundaries.” I think I need some time to understand it. I like that my dissatisfaction can slowly dissolve. I also hope that tomorrow I can be a little braver. To remember those vivid things, to let go of myself—if only temporarily—and bury it for a while.