These Gray Days

The town has been flooded for days thanks to the overwhelming flow of rainfalls, of which people despised, for they had to adjust the routines and everything that has been set and saved. In bitterness and crisp, frosty surroundings they tried to cope and absorb. Cursing the flood, loathing how the gloomy days changed their systems.

But he, he was something. Of anything he has been observing every day on his past thirty years he has found what love actually is. He found it when he enjoys the chill sensation when he put his wet foot inside his shoes. How amazing it was to sense each drop of the rainfall pinning his head, like a thousand needles of weed composing him ease. He walked barefoot on the flooded road by himself, when for sure nobody else had avoided to even go out of their safe doors.

All these rain drops gives somehow a favor to me, and it’s not the end of the world. I can hope for a fresh, lively land when it’s all over and start a new beginning of my days. Those might just would be like any other casual days but they are still brand new. They are promises on every hour you live in. So endure it. Live it. Every agonizing storm has to end in any days now.

Burst in contended hearts, he opens his eyes and watches a yellow sunshine shimmering over the soaked rooftops, babies’ heads and roses.

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.