Do not bury me in Asia

– by B.

Do not bury me in Asia.

I’ve been here already longer than I ever signed on for, and eternity in this wasteland scares me like nothing else. Will you respect this as my last wish?

Do not bury me in Asia.

I will have no say in this matter, I know. I have just this one voice from the void: do not leave me here alone. This climate was never welcoming to me, penetrating shut-in summers, non-existent changes of the seasons, and winter winds vowing murder. This scorched ground will not welcome me, and the gray clogged-up heavens will have no place, no voice, no mercy for me.

Do not bury me in the cold and shallow ground of Asia.

Imagine my trembling white face, laowai forever now, homeless and sad for another 10,000 years while hun and po refuse to dissolve, slow and corrupted now, no one and nothing with me but my books, which my tired demon eyes will no longer be able to make sense of, and which will give me no comfort. Do you see it?

Do not bury me in Asia, please, I beg you.

Xavier, Richi and the German priest will not be keeping me company at the laowai-Valhalla, I shall be denied entry to the inner banquet rooms where they celebrate with Laozi, Li Bai and the drunken monks. A feast is served therein, and the sound of laughter and good spirits escape past the fierce doorman, kongtiaos blasting in there, but I, I be forever pinned in the icy corner of the crowded bar, watching the restless ESL soul’s sad attempts at postmortem pickup conversations with the cute and wingless bargirls, perpetuated huangjiu-headache hovering as premonitions of a storm that will never come to break my monotony. Forever I will watch the horribly slow and uninspired plays by Ding Junhui find their ways into pocket, O’Sullivan sleeping in his chair, cue laying broken beside him on the floor. Forever on repeat plays Take me to your heart, and I still do not know who wrote it, and now I never will. And yes, Facebook is still blocked.

Don’t leave me alone in this cold and hopeless place that is Asia.

There be demons here for me too, do you not know it? Every night my landlord steals my deposit, every morning faceless workers awake me with power drills at dawn, and all day long my ayi steals my things, crowded one-room apartment, and no hot water to be had. This may sound funny but it’s not. It’s always Shanghai winter, and the mosquitoes will still not let me sleep. The Chinese will gang up on me, friends deceiving me, demanding girls constantly texting me, and I can not ignore one single text less they come banging down my door, window, or random like a heart attack stepping straight out of my closet. They will rip commitment out of my heart and put it in their fake LV bags, beneath thick layers of emptiness, leaving no room to breath. This may sound funny but it’s not. There be demons here, can you not hear them already?

Do not fucking do it, don’t put me in this wretched yellow earth.

Am? Nate? Hellowatch? Mum, Dad anyone, for fuck’s sake, do not do it. I hate resorting to threats, but as a matter of fact you shall find me haunting you all in the shape of an horrific laowai demon, the whitened face of Zhongkui mounted on the body of a polar bear, a ghoul exceeding even the wildest daoist dreams. Do you think I want that? Pitiful I shall be, nothing will cover my lies anymore. Of no good use will I be, monotony only and no outside world to dream of, no hope of what could have been, as nothing will ever be again except this cold yellow reality, non-embracing, non-dissolving, non-sensical sorrow. I shall have chosen it myself, for no good reason, so don’t ask me again. 

Why did you have to bury me in Asia? Please, for Gods sake, in the name of heaven, why did you do it, why did I do it?