I was born and raised in a city that people longingly refer to as the Venice of the East. At the dawn of my birth, my grandfather gifted me miao (sprout; a combination of wood and earth elements) and ye (shining brightly; a suggestion of fire), to balance out the water in our surroundings.
I grew up aspiring to be a writer of Chinese fiction, but fate sent me to a tropical island, where the syllables of my mother tongue started losing their fullness by the day. I still wrote — albeit in a different language — and busied myself with undertakings that otherwise nourished my soul: guiding visitors on a route along the national monuments, introducing people to the intricacies of reptiles and penguins, cooking in a soup kitchen.
Then I moved again, this time across the Pacific, where I became mired in technology for the most unexpected reason: I fell in love. I ended up in a free descent that changed the trajectory of my life forever. After school, I exchanged my labor for a comfortable life for three years, while the reveberations of capitalism chipped away my sense of self.
I quit for self-preservation. Now I do a myriad of things that give me simple pleasures: read and write, research, build circuits, take political education classes, make pottery pieces, among others.
Last updated December 24, 2022.