2046

There was a period in my life where I firmly believed I was born in the wrong era. Had I been a woman in Pre-Raphaelite England where a full figure was revered, I would have had people write poetry about me, sculpt my likeness in alabaster, and kiss the ground I walk on. Ok, there is always the chance that I could have been born a kitchen wench, and I couldn't have voted or gone to the university, but at least I wouldn't have had to diet. So there... Call me shallow.

But now, I want to live in Singapore/ Hong Kong in the '60s. I want to dress in a Shantung cheongsam everyday. I want to paint my nails blood-red, line my eyes dramatically with kohl, and drawl on a cigarette lazily while my lover looks on with melancholic desire. I want to live in a hotel perpetually drenched in the scent of passion- both rapturous and repressed, wear three-inch heels, walking langourously as if it were the easiest thing in the world to do. I want to take a train to a place, a time where things never change and where memories are real. I want to fall in love like I was drugged. And I want Tony Leung to look at me as if I grip the madness of his soul.