i dug out an old script i wrote before going to flekkeland. fung gave it back to me just this summer as he somehow found it in his possession. probably the best thing ever he gave me so far. heh.

it was supposedly written for a minifilm me and fung planned to make over one summer, dated back possibly as far as when i was fifteen turning sixteen, or maybe sixteen turning seventeen. it was surprisingly written in chinese. i never wrote anything serious in chinese and i don't know why i wrote in chinese.

surprisingly and not surprisingly i found out i indeed have always been the same. i wish i could post the immature script i had- it was even typewritten. maybe i will translate it to english and expand it, and actually work on it contraty to my usual habit of having ideas and never work on them. it was basically a story between a random student who secretly declared major in theatre instead of business or something else his parents wanted him to and a (now when i read it again) possibly schizophrenic alcoholic with too wild of an imagination. surprisingly i was so much like i am now. not surprisingly the story was just another condensed story of myself. i seem to have a subconscious habit of writing plays/stories/poems in certain important tragic stages of my life about myself. i never write happy plays/stories/poems for some reasons.

surprisingly it was not as immature as i thought it would be, at all. there were, objectively, delicious sentences and lines, even in chinese- heck i did not know my chinese was not that bad at all. surprisingly i indeed have dreamt (and possibly done, as it is afterall about my life) about something very similar to that. i really should write at least poems if not plays about my dreams.

not surprisingly it was really just a me, me, me play. i have forgotten or have not realized i have started talking to myself at that young age. maybe it has something to do with the thing with my father stopped talking to me from that year on for two years and rarely really talk these days either.

looking at that play, i don't know how i should feel. i really don't. it makes me feel happy and sad. i am happy that the real derek has always been in me since i was that young even. i am happy that i was capable or writing a half decent script at that time. (i wrote quite a decent a play about 4 homosexual young and not so young men a year before that but the manuscript was misplaced and lost because of the stupid 'chairman of the drama club', saying it's 'all weird and is like some silly bullshit'. i miss that play a lot and i wish i could read it again.) i am happy and sad that suddenly i remembered a lot about that year or two. happy that i pick up lost or suppressed memories again, sad that i pick up lost or suppressed memories again. those could easily have been the most fucked up years of my life so far. not a single thread of real happiness. a feeling of companionship through hanging out with fung was the best thing i got already. maybe also feelings of madness and fiery temper at peak too. those were also the years that everything went out of hand, the years that i started drinking vodka and hurting myself in different ways, mentally and physically. those were the years that i never wanted to go home (though i did). those were the years. i am sad that the innocence and restlessness might never come back to me, partly because (though i hate to admit) i inevitably have grown up a bit and changed a little- there went the innocence; and days sure have been a bit better now- hence the lost restlessness.

i really should start translating it.

that reminds me i have a couple of short and not so short plays to work on...
so that i can look back at it when the next big stage of my life comes. or so that someone will let me read them years later after i have nearly forgotten about them.