The Ruthless

They said crying is supposed to be done only by the crybabies. But even though the strong-hearted are awarded of gold trophy everytime they shed a tear, she still thinks that crying is a very taboo thing to do. Such a cold-blooded little woman, very blasé about almost anything, that there are only two things that could drive her crazy: kittens and iPad.

And thus, when she first heard about the ill-fated news of one of her acquaintances, who was abruptly hospitalized for an illness unbeknownst by anybody, all she said was, “oh.” Her face was a bit frowning and her eyes seemed misty. “Oh God, what’s with you? Where is that inhuman serial killer smirk I used to see?” her roommate shouted at her with a fake quizzical look.

Quickly she switched the expression and answered, “in your arse.” They laughed. They still laughed when the TV shows stupid fabricated story about declaring love and so. She laughed when petting her kitten.

The group messages about her sick friend kept on chiming on her phone, revealing his progress and some strange concern that comes with it. Everybody seemed to have a word to speak up. She scrolled the messages, observing the photos, restrained. She did not type anything to the huddled group.

Staring blankly to the room’s ceiling, her mind was suddenly kept up. And then she cried. Tears that never falls for several years. Tears she had always managed to suppress. Not now. Not when her mind was occupied with the thoughts of the friend. No, they never that close to each other. They never cared so much. Only some encounters and private messages in the long lost past. She couldn’t understand, but what she could figure out was that something essential has rising from somewhere, quietly breaking her tremendous, massive walls, like a sunrise each morning that she admires, like an inevitably emerging ray of light from a dark slope.

A Bittersweet Life

It’s very impressive how a single piece of music is able to determine one’s subconscious state, moving his heart and soul.

A disciple asked his master, “Do the leaves flow or is it the wind?” His master replied, “No, it is the heart and the mind.”

Just like how the movie A Bittersweet Life (2005) brilliantly portrayed, I saw how the leaves flowing by the air while I was driving from work and somehow I could feel the air brushed on my face even though the windows were all closed.

And I still precisely recall the magnificent notes of its powerful score. One blood-bathed story about mobs where you witness such horrific ruthless crime but it ironically has got a really splendid score.

It interprets a loneliness that drives you dreaming of warmth, a kind of warmth you cannot get from tools you can easily buy. It takes utilizing your eyes, heart and soul to accomplish the emotion you’ve been dying to feel, no matter how deniable you make your mind up.

That the truth of life is finally all about being in love. Say it in another language, word, writing … when you are invoked at the idea of staying, of the warmth of sunlight, of beautiful calming music, of tears falling through your cheeks, of embracement and jolly to be with somebody, of the unusual ability over sensing how the future would be, then it’s humanly, bitterly, love.

One late autumn night, the disciple awoke crying. So the master asked the disciple, “Did you have a nightmare?” “No.” “Did you have a sad dream?” “No,” said the disciple. “I had a sweet dream.” “Then why are you crying so sadly?” The disciple wiped his tears away and quietly answered, “Because the dream I had can’t come true.”


She was typing on her computer that noon when the sound of roaring thunderstorm disrupted her concentration. She had been working hard for so many painful yet raging hours that even just glancing to the window was none that she could have thought of. She was writing a story about a faux pink leather handbag her grandmother had given her as a birthday present, with a funny note on the inside which says something awful about some homicides happened decades earlier and they got things to do with her grandfather. It was not gruesome at all, it was a depressing story. While writing she could not bear not to cry and furious at the same time. She needed to simplify how she feels, wiping the wasted tears away, and that’s when she looked up on the window, to see the silent drops from the sky, pixilating the glass, blurring the garden. The thunderstorm kept on bellowing. She wiped her tears with the fifth tissue paper.