China was my Valentine

One year ago, I met China. It was love--a difficult, uncomfortable, longing sort of love. The love that intoxicates for fourteen days then thrusts you away to wonder whether it ever happened. When the artifacts--tickets, trinkets--finally convince you that it was real, you are left cold and alone to ponder your irretrievable loss. The reality at once exalts and stings as you clutch the tangible evidence to your heart. You cling to the subject of your adoration but each passing day places its own claim on your prize. Undocumented moments are slowly consumed by time. Sweet encounters become subdued and then fall out of memory. You step back to take pause, gather the pieces, and realize that the recollection you have assembled is incomplete. Disappointed but not defeated, you fold it gently, set it on the shelf labeled experience, and shift your consciousness toward the most urgent riddle: the present.

In other words, my travel journal is missing a lot. Next time I write a travel journal, it should be less what I'm thinking about and more what I did.