7/3/26 Falling Apart (Part 1)

Right now I’m in Riyue Bay, about one hour from Sanya.

I’m sitting in a café called Omniflow (流), a small Tibetan café with a free-spirited, almost meditative atmosphere.

The two artists friends I met last week told me about here.

They were actually the very first group of friends I made after coming back to China, it all happened so randomly.

I will write about how everything unfolded, and how I eventually ended up here, right now, right here.

But first, I need to go back to the beginning.

Right now I don’t even know how to properly capture my feelings in words. By the end of the day, words feel like a very futile device.

Last week I found a milonga in Haikou through internet.

I had no idea what it would be like, since it was the first milonga I had ever attended in China. More than anything, I just missed dancing.

But even deeper than that, I missed being myself.

Since coming back to China, or maybe more precisely, since coming back to my family, I have felt myself shrinking.

For the past six years I lived mostly in places where everything was in a foreign language. Suddenly now I understand every conversation around me, I can read every sign on the street, everything people say around me makes sense instantly.

And with one single application, WeChat, you can do almost everything: order food, pay for things, call a taxi, book tickets, talk to people, organize your entire daily life. The level of technological integration in China is honestly astonishing. Sometimes it feels like living in the future.

At the same time, there are other realities that are impossible not to notice:

People smoking everywhere;

Patriarchal and hierarchical dynamics appearing quite openly in daily interactions, in society, and sometimes even more strongly inside families;

Sometimes it feels like people speak with an absolute certainty that they already know everything. The narrative is already decided: we are the best, I am the best. 

There is very little space left for curiosity, or for exploring a fuller picture.

And somewhere inside all of this, I started to feel that I was losing connection with myself.

It’s difficult to explain exactly why.

Even though I have been trying very hard to take care of myself by meditation, mindfulness, therapy, writing, eating healthy food, practicing yoga.

Still, the situation itself sometimes felt like I was trying to dry my skin while I was still swimming in the ocean.

A friend of mine, Crystal, once told me something simple but wise: timing is important.

Spending time with my family again has felt… strange, almost unreal at moments.

On one hand, I do feel that my family loves me, I can sense that clearly.

But on the other hand, I also began to recognize many toxic patterns that had always existed between us.

I realized that growing up, I often didn’t feel I had the most basic things: respect, space, privacy.

So I understood that I really needed to reconnect with myself again.

I needed some space to breathe.

That was when I started searching online and found the milonga in Haikou.

To be honest, right before leaving the house that day, I had an argument with my mom.

It was about very simple things.

First, I felt that I had no privacy. People entered my room almost without knocking.

Second, sometimes strangers would come into the house, which made me feel very uncomfortable.

Third, I only had a very small closet, even though I have quite a lot of belongings after years of being aboard.

After I tried to explain how uncomfortable these things made me feel, I felt extremely distressed, I felt suffocated, I felt unseen, unheard, unrecognized.

And after that conversation, my mom responded with something that has been her specialty for many years: the silent treatment.

I don’t appreciate that at all.

So I left when she was in silence.

On my way to the station we talked again.

She focused on one point again and again: that I should forgive her, because she had already apologized, and one day she will die, and she wants me to live with peace.

I actually agree that forgiveness can bring peace, and I do believe I am on that journey.

But things are rarely that simple.

Since I was little there has always been this idea repeated to me: if someone hurts you, you should look at their suffering too.

Poor them. 

You are healthy, you are strong, so you should let go and be kinder.

Maybe there is truth in that.

But sometimes it also feels like my own pain disappears inside that narrative.

Something else happened on the train.

I saw a father scolding his daughter harshly, she looked about four years old.

At one moment he even hit her.

I felt a wave of sadness and fear.

Part of me wanted to stand up and protect her.

But my throat completely froze.

The man’s face looked terrifying, almost distorted with anger.

Another thought appeared in my mind: maybe I should not interfere with other people’s karma.

I looked around the train.

Everyone was quietly looking at their phones like nothing happend.

The scene felt surreal.

We were sitting in a modern high-speed train, moving incredibly fast through the landscape, a symbol of technological progress.

And yet I suddenly wondered: are we still fully human?

I felt the urge to cry and to scream.

The father was still visibly angry, so eventually I left that carriage.

I felt very sad.

And I also felt like a coward.

Usually I don’t mind helping strangers, even if no one else is doing anything.

But confronting someone in a violent situation… honestly, I don’t know if I have the courage.

It scares me.

Eventually I arrived in Haikou.

My dad called me.

He was actually quite supportive and spoke with a surprising level of emotional intelligence.

Still, since returning to China I have felt extremely adrift.

In some countries where I was completely alone, I actually felt much more balanced than I do here with my family.

Even though I cried on the way, I checked into my hotel, got ready, and went to dance tango.

And the moment I heard the music, something inside me softened.

Through the music.

Through the embrace.

Through the dance.

Through tango, a part of myself slowly returned.

That night I felt free.

I felt happy.

I felt almost ecstatic.

When the milonga ended, I went back to my hotel.

But I still had so much energy in my body, I couldn’t sleep, I didn't want to sleep.

So I started searching for somewhere to go, and eventually I found a bookstore that stayed open until 1 a.m.

At that moment it was already around 11:50.

I called and asked if they were still open.

The owner said they were about to close at midnight and suggested I come the next day.

I said it was my last night in Haikou.

He sounded relaxed and said, “Sure. You can come and stay for about an hour.”

When I arrived, I immediately felt something special about the space.

It was incredibly cozy.

Warm light, wooden shelves, and books everywhere.

Many of the books were ones I love, or books that had been on my reading list for years.

I asked the owner who chose the books.

He said, “My wife.”

I immediately replied, “Oh my gosh, I want to meet her!”

But that wasn’t even the highlight of the night.

In the bookstore, two artists were setting up an exhibition.

Their energy immediately caught my attention, I was drawn to their work, especially the videos and photographs.

Something about it resonated with me deeply.

So I started talking with them.

Her name is Naozhi (脑汁), and later I spoke with her partner Yanshu (鼹鼠), the exhibition was about his work.

At some point the three of us started sharing ideas and experiences, the conversation flowed naturally and openly.

Before we realized it, it was already two or three in the morning.

In that moment I felt my whole being open again: radiant, charged, flowing.

For a long time I had felt blocked inside, that night something started moving again.

I felt deeply grateful for that connection.

Originally I was supposed to leave Haikou the next day.

But I decided to stay one more night so I could attend their exhibition and also meet the woman who curated the bookstore.

The exhibition was amazing, I even participated as a player in a chess game installation designed by Yanshu.

What an experience.

Spending time with people who feel curious, open, and alive; people with whom I felt seen, honestly, what more could I ask for?

Later that evening I finally met the owner of the bookstore.

She was incredibly elegant and well-mannered, but also warm and gentle. I could feel a strong but soft energy from her presence. Talking with her felt comfortable and inspiring at the same time.

I was very happy that I had decided to stay one more day.

After that I returned to Sanya.

My cousin was leaving soon, and the Lantern Festival was approaching. Since I had come back to China partly to experience the Chinese New Year again, I thought it would be meaningful to spend that time with family.

Also, to be honest, I had already run out of clean clothes.

So I went back.

And that’s when the nightmares started.