Boreas

It's September 4th, and for the first time in a long time I'm not in Singapore. I'm a million miles away, inside a concert hall, shoulder to sweaty shoulder with strangers. One of my favorite places and ways to be. I'm not sure where this concert hall is, but it's winter outside; I'm pretty sure of that. There's still a rime of chill clinging to my skin. At the end of the night, when I've danced until all of my muscles are shaking shaking and I finally go outside, then steam will rise off of my body. 

I'm sure of this. 

2020

It's September 4th, 2020, and Singapore doesn't fuck around with COVID.

I spent months locked alone in my studio apartment. I didn't see anyone in person for longer than it took to get a takeaway cup of coffee at the cafe next to my flat. Months without human contact, months never seeing another human without a mask on. 

It messes you up.

September 4

It is September 4th. Late afternoon. Here in Singapore September 4th still counts as summer, so the endless heat is even more endless than usual. I'm downtown, meeting friends for a drink in a bar that sits right in the shadows of all of the most famous Singaporean landmarks.

Then again, most of the country is in the shadow of those landmarks. You see them looming on the horizon: Marina Bay Sands, the Singapore Flyer, the Esplanade. Massive sci-fi buildings that feel like they're closing in every day.