I used to think about what a festival means. Is it a tradition, a thing to be celebrated, or just an opportunity to have a break from normal life? This year, the first year in HK, I seem to find the answer.
Planning to return to mainland in several years, I feel like myself like a passenger and HK is a just a station. The red number on calendar showed me the coming of moon festival, shedding some warm light on my life with piles of reading material and crowds of strangers.
I met three friends during the festival. The first one is my new classmate. We went to the Victoria Park by ship, only to find the Lantern Fair was boring and the fire-dragon was over. So we bought two big bottles of water, sitting on the wayside and toast to the moon. At that moment, I feel like I was the combination of a Tang Dynasty poet and a tramp in Brooklyn. It’s cool.
The second one is my junior alumni who came to HK two years ago. It is wonderful when two life tracks reunion just because they make the same decision. We climb up to the Victoria Peak, facing the ocean, and talking about whether we like this city or not. The moon shone above, saving us from almost being melted by the darkness.
The third one is one of my undergraduate classmates who now works in HK. After hearing I have not eaten a moon cake, he sent one to me under the Tropical Cyclone Signal No.3. It was the most delicious moon cake that I have ever eaten.
Moon Festival passed away, ordinarily but meaningfully. When I was 17 years old, I dreamt of the kind of life that wandering around the world and holding nobody and nothing on mind. After several years being away from home and friends, I can’t be brave enough to say it again. I begin to cherish the opportunities that the festival gives us to express our miss and wishes to our loved ones. If I were a kite and my friends and family were the string, then the festival should be the hand that pull the string from time to time, reminding me that it is time to say I love you to them. It’s never too late to realize this.