Today’s weather is perfect. The sun is out, yet the temperature isn’t too high or too low. There’s a little breeze, and the air is fresh and crisp, accompanied by an early taste of autumn. Officially speaking, autumn isn’t here yet. We need to wait until September 22nd, the autumnal equinox, one of the only two days on which the length of daytime equals that of the nighttime everywhere on earth (the other day is spring equinox). I learned about this in middle-school geography class, and I was impressed enough by this fact of nature that I still remembered it after so many years.

Couldn’t pay no attention to this perfect day, I decided to go to the city and visit my favorite bookstore. It wasn’t too late in the morning when we arrived, so I was able to find a parking slot right in front of the bookstore (oh so lucky). Many people were in the store already, despite that it was only opened for ten minutes. We parted ways immediately after entering the store. He walked to the culinary section (as usual) and I went straight to the “Staff Recommended” section, gave it a quick browse, didn’t find anything special, and headed for the fiction section. Nowadays, around 70% to 80% of the books I read are non-fiction, but whenever I go to a brick-and-mortar bookstore, I’ll always check out the fiction section first. They just feel different, being neatly laid out or stacked on the bookshelves, according to their genres and the first alphabets of their creators’ family names. I relish the moments of walking among the bookshelves, one aisle after another, surrounded by all the colorful and delicate covers and the stories and wisdom behind them.

After about half an hour, I decided to buy Yiyun Li’s new book. I’ve read enough of her work that I knew I wouldn’t regret paying $20 for another paperback of hers. My time at the bookstore was well spent.

Once leaving the bookstore, it seemed like I had more mental space to notice the people around me. Most of them were young, needless to say, since I was in the city. Many had their hair dyed and tattoos displaying on their limbs and necks. They dressed in style, where “style” was firmly defined by and only by themselves. I saw a person who wore shoes with one red and the other blue. I saw another person – unequivocally queer – in a neon pink tutu dress but with beard on their face. While observing them, I became sharply aware of my own thoughts, of how I admired that they could present themselves as who they believe they are or who they aspire to be, even though such manifestation was only achieved through what they wear. My admiration swelled up because I haven’t worn anything interesting in a long time; I haven’t even worn any accessories, which I used to wear whenever I went out. But what was funny was that except for my admiration, I didn’t pity myself either. I am pretty happy with my daily outfit, which usually includes a T-shirt with some graphics, a pair of jeans, and sneakers. My body is content in these plain clothing and so is my soul. Setting aside my admiration, I desire no change.

The neighborhood I live in consists mostly of elderly people. I – who is no longer in her twenties – am actually one of the youngest residents in my area. This means the general auras I experience when I walk out are tranquil, warm, content, and welcoming. I don’t bump into the youthful signals of excitement, coolness, agility, or fluidity very often; I rarely do. Even when I’m inside my house, I tend to be sedate, sitting by my desk reading books or writing articles.

Perhaps city life has long passed me. Growing up in a stereotypically metropolis, I have never thought this day would arrive, a day that I won’t long for karaoke nights with friends, that I won’t fall asleep with the sound of cars constantly speeding by, that on weekends, I won’t wander on streets aimlessly, randomly pushing open the doors of coffee shops or stationery stores. Yet when this day finally arrives, I find I’m no longer looking for a city life. I love staying close to nature and spending hours tending my garden, and I know where (and how) I live also represents who I am. And I’m happy with myself.