Where lines happen.
Just some dead plants in the garden after the nasty weather, forgotten until in the mood for clearing. Drudgery I suppose. Until my hasty fingers grasping for mingering roots encountered something bulky and warm. I know what it is on contact. I could not believe it. It’s just the right time too. All the days that I forgot about what I sown, I don’t deserve it, but earth gives her due.
The light is getting dark, there are crystals in the air. How come they know their times and yet I do not. In the snowy valley everything is in shades of dark and grey, quite an entrance of the night, an exit to me. I wonder the light as the ghost wonders life, the only present mirrors the past, a past that will not come. Most souls do chase after the light, try to outrun the coming night, but I prefer the relief of the passing, the transitioning, the almost caress that is gentle and calm. It says: take your time.
They say life is but a dream. I have fragments of needy emotions conjuring up images to support their fragile nature, distorting memories in the meantime to fit individual taste. What we feel are what to us, the only thing that’s real. I think we are just selfish that way. Holding on to the very last shred of evidence that we exist, that we matter. But I’m here in the valley, where nothing cares, because it’s not expecting anything because nothing is doing any expecting, they just are. No thoughts then, what a relief. Nothing here hurts, so I’m not afraid; nothing here cares; so I’m content; nothing here ponders, so I exist.
The night is chill as a diamond, but we don’t shiver from cold do we, if we have nothing to lose and nothing to gain. We are going where we are going, somewhere in the distance, not yet, just a destination, what can it be. Can’t help but fondling the end. Is it un-natural? Or is it a way to construct the beginning. For everything has a beginning, and the end is but one of those things.
No stars to point the way, yet an inner light is guiding me. The shadows in the dark do not frighten me, but arouse in me an absent-minded curiosity. Are they afraid, what do they see when they look, if they are following me what would happen to their own, everything has its own path, I don’t mind the company for awhile, pitiful things, I hope they find what they seek.
Compassion is felt when one is walking closer to the doom. When we stare down into our own abyss, we finally spare a glance to our un-witty companions and resonate the desperations and a common story. We can help each other; we can share our warmth; we can exchange the stories of our past; we can probe for the doors, the handles, the steps, the vaults to our origin; we can exchange hearts if you don’t mind, would you pass the salt.
Change is coming when the solitary me meet a boundary of a time. The end of the valley where the shadows retreat and hide. The hidden moon now clears a slivery path to the heart of the desert. Still, thorn-covered plants line the long-ago dried-up frozen earth. Nothing to see here, it is an escape. And I take it as if it’s my choice.
Have you heard the sounds of your thoughts, even if you are not thinking of anything, trying to keep your mind as dry and as clear as the night air. SXRCH, SDRCH, XXDRC. Did not know they can be so loud. Everything has ears now as if the sounds create a whole new existence. Me. Not deliberate, not holding back either. Proud and humble as I can be. My steps announce my guilt, my ambition, my pitch and my triumph. I am here.
I do not see any features of my destination, but I know I’m here. My feet won’t carry me any further, my breath catches and grows faster, and my soul stills then stirs, my eyes grow large and water on their own accord. I can see now. The sky is as clear as it has always been, the earth is as giving as the end. I have traveled with a guide that is planted in me. I was afraid, but not any more. Show me. I come to see you. Just as you always see me:
I’m but an ornament, an ornament in your design. No more, no less.
Get it back.
Show us how.
Best of luck.
Enjoy your dance.
“I’m yours.”
At first, Qi thinks he might burst out laughing, for surely this is a joke. For more than a mad second, He 100% expects Rev to get up, alive and kicking, bending over with that loud laughter of his, grinning at him with shiny eyes for believing for even a second that he is, indeed, dead. Rev is still, Qi tries to be still too, for him, for them both. So he does not laugh, just as Rev is not able to anymore. Qi is calm, part of him thinks that he knows that this absurd calamity is coming (he blames himself, he blames them all, he blames himself). Another part of him blames that first part of him for even attempting to cope with the fact that his young love is laying on a cold table, cold and dead, and trying to find a rationale behind all of these (he blames himself). He can feel himself desperately trying to come up with a coping method, it does not help. He then automatically starting to look for a coping strategy, it does not hold. He grasps in vain for a coping stratagem, it submerges into the abyss under its own weight. The truth is, Rev died while holding Qi’s heart. It has stopped beating along with his. He is in ruins. He needs to escape. Again. Only this time, he knows that he is lost.
No more talks at all hours.
No more laughing about higher lives.
No more “man, you suck.”
No more “dude, you rock.”
No more toppling society and regimes,
No more aliens bringing about peace.
No more “what you doing tomorrow, next week.”
No more “the rest of our lives, what do you think.”
No more “ahh, do it again.”
No more “what were you thinking, fuck him.”
No more “I miss you, do you miss me.”
No more “wish you are here, I’m high as a kite.”
No more “I love you.”
No more “You are mine.”
“I love you.” Rev said that so quietly as if he meant it with his heart and soul, not just his breath, as Qi knew that he did. Such statement is not meant to be uttered, between two boys, in public, at least not in such a clear, straight-forward, fucking no-nonsensical way. But that’s just the kinda person Rev is, sensitive yet unreserved, putting his and others heart on his sleeves, not caring at all what others may be charging him with. He lives a life of his own. “It’s a pity,” Qi thinks, “I will need to be more careful handling him from now on. He may be a genius, but also just a child”. For you see, Qi himself is a character for the age or is it ages. He does love like film industry does fantasy novels: tenderly processed and heavily advertised. It’s all for an advantage of course. But he is chasing after something. The only thing that gives him satisfaction is connectedness, if “love” or a version of it can give him more access, then why not. After all, he has nothing to lose. Or so he thinks.
“I love you.” There is nowhere to go. For the first time ever, Qi has to consider what those three words mean. Underneath all that well-developed self-preservation and self-pity, he knows he has something to lose. Something he tries very hard to conceal. A soul so deep, that no light has ever penetrated its surface. And a heart so bleached, he’s afraid it may simply flake off and evaporate into the sunlight. There’s no helping him. All Qi needs is to escape, keep moving. Be a shadow with no shape. But now it’s different. His soul is stirring and his heart, oh boy, his heart is filling in a way he does not yet understand, all these despite the rough handlings by Rev, and perhaps because of it. His whole being is responding to Rev’s sincerity, the intensity of his conviction. He’s humming to it. He’s coming up for air, realizing in amazement that he’s been suffocating himself all this time. Qi does not like this at first. He’s rightfully afraid. He has been played before, for the flower and nectar of his youth. He is the player now, been there for awhile, and yet, this boy is challenging him and is beating him in his own game. Qi is thrilled. He needs a match, even though he did not realize that he did. And Rev surpassed any and all of his expectations to be his equal, or perhaps superior. Qi likes that. That thing he’s chasing after is chasing him, the real him.
“I love you.” How could he? Even with all that he knows? Qi wonders. It could be his accursed good-looks. Again. But Rev himself is commanding enough in his own right. If anyone looks at them, really looks at them, they may think it’s a match made in heaven or hell, or a fairytale. The light and the dark. They match perfectly. Too perfectly. Qi and Rev have known each other for awhile, and Qi always thought Rev as a brilliant and unruly friend. They have such funs together, as mates should. But the way Rev looks at Qi changed, is this just a crush?
“I love you.” Qi knows who himself is. He’s addictive, especially for those eager to have more than just a taste of life. His beauty and attractiveness chiefly lies in the struggle between his spirit and his soul. The former wants to soar above as far as one can go and still further, while the latter patiently await the inevitable crash that comes with going too far, too fast. He’s not used to having someone along for the ride. He has no room for his heart in his wild rides. In fact, he’s trying to outrun it. That is until Rev finds and keeps his heart for him. Now the room is full.
“I love you.” With consequences. Alive.
Nothing that is really understood by her is taught at her school. She is a quiet and polite child. The kind that the teachers tend to forget and somehow now and again remember with fondness and familiarity. Ming thinks that she understands the teachers, and they understand her. If they are to be informed that Ming is actually this particular child that likes to wander on the street long after nightfall, if indeed they are to see her in her current exuberantly happy alertness, Ming is sure that their reaction to her would be a nod to her as a sign of recognition, not having much of an eye contact, coaching their face to a thoughtful and untroubled outlook like they always do and walk away after this series of rather one-sided exchange. Ming does not know whether she just imagines this, so in actual life (she is the furthest from it now), the adults would stop her progress to the park and escort her back to her parents (she’s the furthest from them also). But somehow she knows they would not stop her. They know her as she knows them. The danger may be real, but the dreamer is the most dangerous of all.
Time and time again, there is this drumming in her heart. She tries to find the source of it. It’s like the whole universe is silent and pulsing at the same time. At this point, or any other points in her current path, she is a moving center of the universe. She has the pleasure of keeping and sensing her own gravitational pull, the leisure to gaze up at the inky class of a heaven to account for her minions: the stars, and her queen: the moon. They are there for her, and she is there for them.
The wind comes and goes, one moment there, the next blends back to the sublime. Caresses with wisdom without source, kindness without bound. Ming thinks, not for the last time that she just might be floating with it. Indeed she is, the only things touching the ground one after the other are her own feet, and they are but a tiny surface compared to the whole of her body, which is dipped in the cool velvety night air along with the celestial hosts inside of it. If she just let go of her feet, why, she is in the air, between the joined embrace of earth and heaven. The drumming is the only thing that exists, she herself is everywhere.
Some people are born with big heart. Good for them. If you are like me, somewhat raised differently and learned not to trust the heart or feel its sway, then you have to relearn accessing and following your heart. Why do this? Because all good and lasting innovations and explorations come from the same source. The goodness can only be sampled if one has the capacity of an open heart. Learn arts, learn the many aspects of life, don’t let distaste foul your palate, nor disagreement shut off your eyes. See them all, let them in. The pain and the lightness. They will guide you. Nothing else will.
I have forgotten your name,
I think you must have forgotten mine.
This world between us
darkness and chaos after the brilliant light.
Never thought how cold I would feel,
after the spirit had left and I stood still.
Time and time again I call for you,
broken, you have left me for real.
I don’t hear your cry anymore,
not above the screams of my anger.
Cussing you for showing me the things that you did,
now they are just mirages, glasses in my throat.
How to go on without the piece of me
that you have brought along.
There’s no longer recognition,
strangers with forsaken tougues.
Saying these words,
living this life,
everything that I do
I can’t deny it.
It takes me back,
back to the gate,
with all that I know,
still, there’s no turning away.
Far from grace,
call it a home.
There’s a piece of you inside me,
a permanent wound.
The pain and emptiness
are there for a reason.
In a state of grace,
I know each and every road I’ve taken.
The building smells of cold cement. It’s a comforting smell, it keeps Ming grounded as she feels her way down the stone stairs that have the color that is indistinguishable from that of the wall. A couple more steps, and she’s on the 2nd floor and the window there let in the silver gray moonlight that does not enhance the coloring of the winding stairway. But it is a nice relief nevertheless. Not that Ming minds it either way, the darkness with its soft edge always envelopes her, while the otherworldly moonbeam elevates her and makes her solemn. She welcomes them as the old friends that they are.
Now she’s out of the building. The world seems more surreal even. When one finds home in the shadows, the opening of the space, even just the space between two rows of identical buildings gives the sense that somethings can be shifted in unexpected ways. It gives she the sense of awe and the joy of being able to feel that awe. The shinny gray resident walkway under the moon and the sparse tree covers looks like a static river, and on this river, Ming floats among the two three-story buildings, looking at nothing and everything. She does not feel like anything is surprising, and yet. There’s the window with light still shines through it, the curtains contain the secret of that particular block of space, so small looking from she’s walking, yet so deep it’s impossible to penetrate.
Rows of identical buildings are etched in her mind’s eye. They are like puzzle pieces of life, never-ending combinations and permutations and multitudes of variations under the stars, made of concrete and lives, bicycles and trash bags. And now it’s all so quiet. Like everything are in its proper place, for this moment, and then everything changes again, and yet not changed, it’s just a cycle that repeats. Ming does not understand why that is.
Getting out of the neighborhood of the maze made out of 3-story building is a revolution itself. Not wanting to looks back once, she steps outside of the pull of a mysterious gravity source that is called home, into the market place that would have buzzed with activity starting in the early morning with the breakfast crowd. Ming can smell the DouFu Nao (spicy tofu soup with bean paste) and JianBing Guo Zi (green-bean crepe with egg, the best morning starter ever), but that is 9 hours away, so she savors the mental taste in her mouth and hurries on.
Not that she does not want to be seen walking alone, a ten-year-old child, in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night. But she has a destination, and she has a purpose. This grand adventure has set in her mind an identity, she is living it, she is not afraid of anything, only worry is that she is not able to be that person. She is chasing herself. When the street lights alternates the color of the world with each of her steps, she imagines nothing, but this world within her. The colors are her own, the echoes of her steps are as firm as her steps, the darkness and the dim lights washes over her mind in time, the wind is as gentle as prayers that she dreamt. The world is hers.
It’s getting late, she thinks, maybe a little too late, but something is pulling her towards the park, several streets from her apartment, a whole neighborhood or two away, but she knows that she will go nevertheless. She can feel it, a pleasant buzz is all that she can understand, her whole body hums with the desire to just be there. She knows that she will be, and she can not wait.
Nobody will stop her. Her parents are either home or not home, she does not care much, since they won’t be stopping her from going to a far-away park in the middle of night by herself, being just ten years old. They are not concerned with her, nothing ever happens to her, they seem to think she neither exists nor non-exists. As the only child, she is just there, one day happened upon their lives and no doubt it will just be that way always.
Not that Ming minds. She much prefers to keep to herself, for after all, there is so much of herself to be content with. One part of her now stands silently in this park that she is looking forward to venture into, to which she will be rejoining in utter bliss for maybe half an hour or an eternity, then bid that part of her goodbye with all the tenderness of a fresh young lover on her first taste of the eternal life. Then for the whole of the next day, she will know contentment as only a lucky few has ever felt before. She knows that to be true, for not only does that union give her the sense of purpose, it also gives her the ultimate gift: the appreciation of her very life.
She senses are sharpened in the darkness. There are no lights in the ancient, slightly tilting brick building in which her parents’ apartment is part of.
To be continued…
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