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Friends say my life is a fireworks show, bursting in colours no one can predict.
Years ago, in the rain by the Thames, I ran through seven tube stations, water splashing at my heels. But now, under the grey skies of West Lake, I can’t even leave the couch.
Three years back, I refused to touch coriander, picking out every leaf no matter how finely chopped. But last week, at a street stall, I devoured a bowl of spicy noodles without realising it was sprinkled with the very thing I once despised. Some changes happen quietly, by the time you notice, the old self is already gone.
My wardrobe has seen stranger rebellions. Last year, under Forest City’s scorching sun, I stuffed all my colourful clothes into a donation bin. Black took over my hangers like crows settling in a sycamore. But look at old photos, and you’ll find a girl drifting through Europe, always dressed in something bright.
A digital nomad’s life is a feast in motion, leaving behind scattered fragments of old selves. Some call me fickl... 0 reply
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