she lies awake and stares at falling dreams

writing down wild thoughts conjured in the interval of midnight and dawn

[onefortydawn]

letters, #6 (ten years)

A decade, an empire, an ember in the ruins, a legacy that transcends everything.

What could happen in a decade? What changes would it make?

Often when I sit on the edge of my bed I think of how time stretches, how it seems to go on long and longer yet never returns. I pick memories from the piles in my disorganised, chaotic chamber of mind, watch reels of silent film filtered in muted colors. Most of my friends are married, their kids are growing up, while we are growing old. Some drown in their works, gasping for a gulp of breath sucked dry from their lungs. There are those who confuse their dreams, empty promises of the future that haven't been fulfilled.

But you've always known your dream. You recognise it in a heartbeat, at first sight, like how I fall in love at first sight, and you've never once let it go from your grasp.

A decade is enough for a baby to grow up into a kid, a sprout into a tree, a president of a country to change. A pandemic to break. Someone completed their entirety of middle school all the way through college. A decade is enough to turn someone's life upside down, transform them anew. 

You, too, have changed. That time you were just a boy, a scrawny boy with an awkward smile and cold demeanor—not because you were cold, but because you were young, inexperienced, unsure in the middle of the sudden burst of stardom. That time, your dreams were clear as daylight, like the glint in your eyes. Everything you touched turned into glittering glories. You had conquered all the hurdles, stood on the highest summit, time and time again, unwavering in your passion. 

An empire, they said. A dynasty. A royalty. With your hands you had built a splendor that went down in history. They whispered your name in reverence. "Demon King", they murmured. "Greatest of All Time", they sang praises. "Living Legend", they cheered. 

And then everything crashed and burned. And then everything turned into dust and ashes. The empire you built had become ruins. People started talking, is this his downfall? Is it so weak that the softest blow of the hurricane razed the kingdom to the ground? This is it, they thought, the old king is dead. Long live the new king. 

But your legacy continues. Through the stretching times. Into every space this world has offered. Every crowd and void. You have it all in the palm of your hands. 

But that was the past, and past, like its name, had passed. No longer is that boy with an awkward smile and cold demeanor. In his place stands a man who holds his head high no matter what happens. Years have molded you into a calmer, steadier presence. A wall to lean on. A serene place in the middle of the storm. 

And yet it seems like you never change. That passion and dream stays. The hunger in your eyes is still present. And what are we, the audiences below the stage, watching your play? You send that flaming ember to us who starve, that, you spread fire, burning desire. 

For example, an artist will be able to always draw as long as you stand there on the stage. For example, a dreamer will be able to strive for their dreams while looking up to you. For example, a poet will never lose their words as they gaze at you, weaving sentences and adoration for whatever glory and majesty you keep. 

For example, I wrote my first novel while watching you trying to rebuild your empire, brick by brick, with all your might. 

Ten years. A tenth of a century. A decade of greatness. A decade spiced with heartbreaks and losses. A decade of cumulated dreams and hopes.

This is how the years will be written in history. This is how time will record your legacy. 

[onefortydawn]

stay in the middle, like you a little

0.

A long time ago, I had a dream. In that dream, I was lost in a great labyrinth. The walls surrounding me were full of photographs. I stepped closer and plucked a photograph from the wall. It was a picture of us, standing side by side in our white and dark grey uniforms. We were eighteen at that time. She had her hair tied into a high ponytail and I made a victory sign with my fingers. Behind us, the school's old cherry tree was in full bloom, its fallen petals rested on our hair and shoulders. That picture was taken at our graduation. 

I studied other pictures: they were all of me and her. 

And I remembered what I'd forgotten; the little prayer I used to whisper. 

1.

"I heard a boy from class 3 confessed to Senior Sister."

We put our books on the desk and piled them into a pair of twin towers. She took out her bunny-shaped pencil case, then pulled out a pink ballpoint. She opened her chemistry workbook and started to scribble an electron-transfer equation. 

"Which Senior Sister?" I grabbed her math workbook and flicked the pages open while stealing a glance at her. She tilted her head and put her cheek on the palm of her left hand. Her eyes were round and bright, framed by long eyelashes. She had applied eyeliner and a small touch of peach-colored eyeshadow on them—I wouldn't notice if she didn't tell me. There was this faint scent of clean soap and strawberry when I inhaled the air. I realized it was not her usual scent. She must have changed her shampoo. 

"That Senior Sister. Music Club Senior Sister."

"Oh? Really? Which boy was it again?" 

She frowned and rasped her finger on the edge of the desk, impatient. "That tall boy from class 3. The basketball captain. You spoke to him about the gym schedule last week."

I remembered that boy. He was quite good-looking and had real nice personality—at least I never heard bad things about him. I thought of Senior Sister of the music club, who was very pretty, with that dark chocolate hair that fell around her shoulders. We talked to Senior Sister several times last year when she mentored our class for the school's annual choir competition. Senior Sister always had this certain tone in her voice when she spoke. It almost had the quality of being tranquilizing. 

They were a good match, in terms of appearance, at least. 

I continued to check her homework. She did a better job than I expected. But then I spotted a mistake: she messed up the partial derivative results. I marked the number and returned the book to her. 

"Fix this one." 

She took the book and started to correct her answer. Her lips pursed tightly when she concentrated. 

"So, are they together now?" 

"No, I don't think so. Rumor had it, Senior Sister dated a guy from another school."

"Poor that basketball guy."

She sighed and puffed her cheeks. "Young love is too fragile. It ends almost too easily."

Was it, though? I looked around the classroom. Students had filled the room. Their white short-sleeved shirts were crisp. Their skirts and trousers were dark gray, the color of hurricane. Their voices melded together into a kind of strange cacophony: someone hummed the melody of a popular song, others chatted in casual tones, a girl shouted angrily at a boy. 

But she and I were safe in our bubble of shared placidity. I pulled out an English textbook and started reading. She had just finished correcting her math and chemistry homework before tugging on the hem of my shirt. When she opened her mouth to speak, her voice was soft, filled with melancholy. 

"Hey, if you have a crush on someone, would you confess to them?" 

Would I? I'd never thought of that question before, so I didn't answer. She waited, and waited, and stared at me with her curious eyes. When I clicked my tongue and laughed quietly, she scoffed. Our conversation stopped when the homeroom teacher came. 

But that question lingered. Would you? I wanted to ask her, too. 

2.

Senior Sister was indeed going out with a boy from another school. One afternoon when I walked home from my tutorial class, I saw her walking arm in arm with a boy in a different uniform. 

I didn't know what made me end up following them. Perhaps it was the ambiguous hues of the sky, rose-tinted clouds and purplish-blue and murky orange. Or the illumination that spread from the streetlights and the windows of buildings. Or the way their bodies were so close together. Such intimacy, wasn't it suffocating? 

They turned to a small alley next to a Japanese-style restaurant. The place was poorly lit save for a lonesome lamp hung from a metal pole that glowed pale yellow, creating a pool of light on the concrete pavement. Senior Sister and the boy walked past the pole. I tailed them in silence, only noises from the hustle and bustle of the main road could be heard. But my heartbeat was loud as they stopped under the shadow of the brick wall. They faced each other, then the boy raised his hand to touch Senior Sister's head. I couldn't see the expression on Senior Sister's face, but then I saw her arms circling the boy's neck. The boy wasn't as tall as the basketball captain, but Senior Sister still had to tilt her head back when he lowered his head and kissed her. 

I froze in my place. This wasn't the first time I saw people kissing, but somehow I felt embarrassed. 

I turned my heels and started walking away from that alley. My heart was beating fast, blood rushed in my veins. Before knowing it, I started running on the tiled sidewalk. Past the row of shops and cafes, past the pedestrians in their various faces and clothes, past the blurry scenery of cars and trees and spaces around me. I tried to banish the image of Senior Sister and her boyfriend kissing, because now I started thinking of something. 

Something I didn't quite understand. And it was so dense, so tight it burned my lungs. 

Someone grabbed my arm. The action made me lose balance and had to cling to that someone. My breath was ragged and uneven, but when I looked up, I almost choked. 

She was standing there, frowning. Her uniform was creased and she pinned her hair into a messy bun. There was a tinge of red on her cheeks and lips. I took a step back and peeled her hand from my arm. 

"What are you doing?" 

"What do you mean, 'what are you doing'? You're the one who ran like a criminal."

I debated whether to tell her what I saw before, but there it was again, that uncomfortable feeling creeping down in my lungs, like a moth crawling between alveoli. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, demanding. I could never be able to resist it when she looked at me with that kind of stare: curiosity sparkled in her eyes, her lips parted slightly, her head crooked to the side. In the end, I told her about Senior Sister and her boyfriend, but I didn’t tell her how I followed them and saw them kissing in the back of that dim alley. 

"How nice it is, isn’t it? Having a lover. Walking together, linking arms, talking to each other like you two are the main character of a play, and all other peoples around you are just supernumeraries," she murmured. I didn't tell her my discomfort about the disappearing spaces between lovers. She looked so optimistic, so full of wishful thinking, and I realized I liked it when she beamed like this. We resumed our steps. The bus stop was just around the corner. We would part there. Our homes were on different routes. I would board bus number 44 and she would wait for bus number 15.

"Wait a minute." 

She pulled my arm and we stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. My eyebrows rose as I watched her fiddling with the zipper of her bag. She took out a small plastic bag and asked me to hold out my hand. I squinted my eyes but complied with her request. She dumped the content of the plastic bag on the palm of my hand. It fell with a soft thump. 

"I got this from a buy one get one free promotion. This is for you," she said. I examined the thing on my palm. 

"It's pink."

"It's perfect for you. Look, I have the other." She showed me the magenta wristband on her left hand. The wristband in my hand was pink, several shades below her own. It was made from opaque silicone and the color reminded me of strawberry milkshake. That thing was plain saved for a small white C alphabet embedded. 

"What's this C stand for?" 

She was deep in thought, brows knitted together and lips pouted. Then she replied in a cheeky tone. "C, for Courage!" 

We cracked at her answer. As we walked side by side, she started to recount one incident in her tutorial class involving a girl, a teacher, and a whiteboard eraser, I slipped my hand into the wristband. It fitted nicely around my wrist. I didn't know it before, but the pink looked not too bad against my skin. 

She was right. It was perfect for me. 

3. 

We had been deskmates since the start of eleventh grade, but before that in tenth grade, we were in the same class. 

I supposed it was the choir competition back then. My singing was terrible even among the terrible and I was tone-deaf to the point of impossible. The class president gave up on me and said in a tired voice. It's okay if you don't sing. Just move your mouth, that'll be sufficient. 

But she was furious when she heard that. That day after school ended, she dragged me to the music room. She sat down at the piano and started pressing the keys, playing the melody of the competition song. Listen, you're gonna sing in the choir. I refuse to abandon you. Now, pay attention to my voice.

She had a beautiful voice. Not too high-pitched but there was a hint of certain weight in it. When she sang, it was stable without being too piercing. I stood next to the piano, watching her playing and singing. Everything around me turned into a hazy scene but she. It was as if her voice cast magic and I was swallowed whole, drowned in her ocean. 

So many people in this world, I'm blessed that we have us.* 

We practiced the song over and over. Every day after the last class ended, we stayed in the music room. Sometimes, Senior Sister would come and help us. But most of the time, it was just the two of us. Her persistence resulted in my rapid improvement in singing. I was still terrible and tone-deaf, but at least I could sing the competition song without being out of tune. 

On the day of the choir competition, as we climbed up the stage, she winked at me and whispered, good luck. 

Little did she know, in this lifetime, I had the greatest luck of meeting her. 

A year passed by and suddenly we were in eleventh grade. On that morning of the first day of the semester, I stood in front of the announcement board, looking for my class placement. She was also there, scanning the printed list pasted on the board. I saw our name in the table for class 1. She must have noticed it too because she elbowed me and smirked. Eh, we're in the same class again. 

The desk selection was not determined by the teacher, so whoever came first that morning got to claim their preferred seats. When I arrived at the class, almost half of the seat was already occupied. I sat on the desk on the foremost left side, near the window looking out to the corridor, two rows from behind. Nothing fancy, but it was empty. 

Nice seat, huh. 

I looked up, and there she was standing with her neat blazer and skirt, a friendly smile on her lips. 

I guessed some matters came as naturally as breathing and in my case, she was one of those things. 

4.

"Did you know that Mozart is pink?" 

She loved to throw the most random unimportant things at the most random times. That afternoon, I was staying behind in the deserted classroom to do my math homework. She just came back from the music room and dropped a music score unceremoniously on the desk. I raised my eyebrows and glanced at her. The corners of her lips were downturned. That meant her practice didn't go well and she was pissed off. 

"Hey, did you hear me?" 

"Right. Mozart's pink."

She pulled the chair and sat there facing me. "Aren't you curious?" 

I indulged her chatter. She seemed to be in a great spirit when she talked about things she found interesting. I heard a few whispers about how she's quite self-centered, but I didn't think so. Maybe it was because I found that I liked the way she brimmed with energy when she talked. Or that she eased the burden of filling the spaces with the conversation that always weighed down on me. Or it was simply because I always wanted to hear her musical voice. Or all of those things. I guessed it was all of those things. 

She said the first Mozart she heard was his first variation of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. It happened when she was a toddler, two or three years old. She didn't remember anything, where she was, with whom she was, but she remembered the music. "You see, when I heard that, I didn't see sparkling stars. Instead, it was a garden of flowers, and they're all different hues of red. Magenta, coral, rose, poppy red."

Later, she saw Mozart's portrait in a book, wearing a red coat and hideous white wig. 

She took out a walkman from the compartment under her desk. Its metallic black surface was covered in heaps of stickers. She held out one of the earphones and gestured to me to plug it into my ear.

It was a piano piece I'd once heard when she played in the music room. I didn't know the title or anything about it but I remembered that room, bathed in the pale light of midday sun, with its rows of folding chairs and musical instruments, and the white curtains flapped in the breeze. It was as if I was sitting on the floor again and watching her play the piece on the black Yamaha piano.

I didn't know much about music, but that day in the classroom, somehow I knew that the piece in the walkman was played by her. That moment lasted without any words spoken. We were drenched in the sound of music and when our eyes met her smile bloomed. Her fingers were dancing in the empty space between us as if she was playing piano. Her nails were translucent pink. 

When the music ended, she told me it was Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 8 in A minor. She asked me how was it but the only thing I thought of was the lingering tinkling tunes and her pink fingernails. 

"I guess you're right." She had this smug look once I replied, as if saying, told you so. 

"Mozart was in deep agony when he composed this piece. In 1778, his mother passed away suddenly and it was one of the most tragic moments for him. Thus, this sonata was in minor keys, which is rare for him. His sonatas generally have this certain cheerfulness in them. So people were like, speculating that this was written to express his sadness."

"But, you see, even in his most somber piece, we can still hear the light and airy tone. Kinda romantic, isn't it?" 

5.

In the second semester of eleventh grade, we had a new math teacher. 

The new math teacher was a guy in his late twenties. He had a slender build and jet black hair that always seemed messy and a pair of crooked glasses on his crooked nose. He didn't like to teach according to the textbook. Instead, he'd ask his students which problem they wanted to learn, or which topic interests them. He was a little bit eccentric. Other teachers secretly dubbed him as a troublemaker, yet students liked him for his carefree manner. 

She had a crush on that math teacher.

It was the small things, but I noticed. She stopped playing with her phone when it was time for math class. The way her eyes followed him as he stepped out of the room. Often, she would deliberately pass by the faculty office to catch a glimpse of him. 

"You're gonna burn a hole in him, you know."

She was bewildered when she heard those words come out of my mouth. 

"Was it obvious?" Her voice was layered with both panic and amusement. 

"I mean, with your newly found enthusiasm for math, it's quite obvious."

Since that moment, suddenly my days were filled not only with her, but also with that math teacher. She always had something to share about him. Today his shirt was blue. I think he trimmed his hair. I saw him playing basketball with the boys from class 3. What did he say earlier? Do you know who's Euler? He said his favorite mathematician is Euler. He also said something about the most beautiful equation in the history of math. Eh, you know it? Tell me, tell me. Hey, hey, today he talked to me. When he found out that I play piano, he discussed the relationship between math and musical notes. Sounds cool but I don't really understand. 

It was fascinating listening to her stories about him, yet there was this strange melancholy growing in my chest. I didn't want to hear about him, but I also didn't want her to stop telling me things. It was frustrating. I felt like I'm stuck in an equation with no solution. 

6. 

I had never understood why most people associated romance with pink. I was sick of seeing pink everywhere when it was February and everyone seemed to bathe in the euphoria of Valentine's day. There were so many colors in this world, how could a feeling experienced by different people be the same? I'd heard how red was for passionate love or blue for platonic love, but pink dominated them all. They said it's the color of pure love, something that bloomed in the heart of those untainted souls. 

I'd never understood it before. And yet, I came to understand. 

It was the way she laughed at someone's joke. The look of serenity when her fingers danced across the piano keys. That smile she secretly had when she saw that teacher walk past our class. The frown she had on her forehead when she sang out of tune. The way she tugged on my shirt when she tried to get my attention. There was this tickling sensation when she leaned closer and whispered in my ear. Her breath was warm on my cheek, her voice was soft and clear. 

I stole a glance at her, who was standing near the window, chatting with a classmate. Wind brushed past the window and flooded the classroom with the scent of fresh-cut grass and salt and dusty ground. Her long, black hair fluttered against her shoulders. Sunlight fell on the side of her face, printed soft gradation on her skin. I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. Warmth crept on the tip of my fingers, my arms, bloomed in my chest. 

Hey, did you know that every time you walked, the ground you'd just stepped on turned into a carpet of cherry blossoms? The petals were in various shades of pink. Just like the wristband you gave me and your favorite ballpoint. The blush on your cheeks, the pale rose under your translucent nails, the strawberry-tinted balm on your lips. 

It was the kind of pink Mozart's Piano Sonata no 8 carried.

7.

The cherry tree in the school's backyard was old. Legend said it had been there since the days of our great-grandfathers. But of course, it wasn't true. Cherry trees didn't live long. Their average lifespan was only between fifteen and thirty years. But our school's tree definitely looked old with its huge, wrinkled trunk and dense branches. There used to be a row of cherry trees along the backyard fence, but time killed them all year by year and this tree was the sole survivor. Maybe that was how it got its weathered look.

Not long after it shed all of the flowers, the tree started to cover its branches with green leaves. Even though it wasn't as scenic as the blossoms, those leaves were charming in their own way. Students liked to sit under the shade of that tree, eating their lunch or playing around or practicing their talents—public speaking and singing and dancing. We liked it there because despite the number of people, it never got too noisy. Perhaps it was the wisdom of the tree. Under the embrace of its shade, there was only a strange sense of serenity. 

"A girl from class 2 confessed to him and got rejected. She cried and stayed in the infirmary the whole day." 

She straightened her skirt and sat next to me. I leaned back on the tree and brushed off the fallen leaves on my hair. 

"Really?" 

She sighed. "It would put him in a difficult situation, right? It's not like he seduced her, but still, he'd be held responsible." 

There was a palpable sadness in her voice and it made something in my chest clenched in pain. 

I asked her if she would confess her feelings to that teacher and whether she would be afraid of rejection. 

"My crush on him doesn't matter. At one point I realized it was ridiculous. But you see, it's a fascination. Adults are so sparkling and beautiful. He's that kind of adult who radiates certain rays. So you always want to bask in his brilliance. He makes my heart race. He makes me look forward for the coming days. That kind of energy, that kind of warmth, I want to treasure it. This is my kind of love: silent, sacred, and enduring. But you don't understand, do you?"

She was right. I didn't understand her fascination with adults. For me, adults were all the same: a tangled root of mess and desolation. They were very tired, dissilusioned, very busy telling themselves they're alright, okay, you got this sweetheart. And I didn't know much about love. I knew the logical sequences. It was easy. You fell in love, you confessed your love, the outcome was either your feeling was reciprocated or you got rejected. Love should have been easy, in theory. 

And yet. 

And yet she walked the other way around.

I guessed it wasn't a terrible choice. To stay in the middle ground, not afraid of being rejected or burdened to give more. To have your love preserved in gentle hues. Young love should look like this. Young love should be kept pristine, unbroken, until time washed it away. 

Young love should've been fleeting, but also the one with the deepest engraving. 

And you? She hummed that question while combing her hair with her fingers. 

"And what about me?" 

She blinked innocently. "Got someone in your mind?" 

I shrugged. She clicked her tongue and shook her head. Stubborn, she muttered before taking a bite of her curry bun. 

I tilted my head back and looked up at the looming shade of the cherry tree. Sunlight fell through the gaps of its leaves, rendered lines of rays rained down on us. My gaze followed a green leaf floating down, down, then landed on the top of her head. 

I wished I was that leaf and all of its mess. I wished I liked her a little less.

Often, I dreamt of us standing side by side in the middle of a great labyrinth. In those dreams, I bared all of my secrets to her, all my feelings and desires. Of the colors I saw surrounding her. But every time I demanded her reply, she only smiled and disappeared. 

8.

Sometimes I fiddled with my wristband, turned it and saw the lone white C among the pink. I remembered that time we stood in the middle of the sidewalk, under a darkened sky and the last bit of rose-tinted clouds got swallowed up by the night. I remembered how city lights poured illumination upon us as if we were the main characters of a play and all the people, all those buildings, those vehicles speeding on the road—they were all mere background noises.

I remembered her face. I remembered her voice. I remembered the shape of her smile. 

I remembered what she said, C for Courage. 

But I never had that courage.

[onefortydawn]

booklet spread: parade ngengat

[onefortydawn]

In this syllable, we build a Royalty

Red had been sitting on the balcony of the inn since dawn cracked and boiled sky in fiery vermilion. The hem of her gray robe fluttered, a ripple of early morning. Her hair, black, and long, was gathered into a tight knot on the top of her head, but a few strands danced lightly on her temples. Wind caressed her face, cold against the plane of her cheeks. The warming system inside her gurgled, surged, slithered through cable veins disguised beneath frail human skin. She watched the day erupt and life flood the city, as people began their dances of routine, a ritual of human civilization taking a shape on ancient soil. The market below was buzzing with noises and colors. She rendered them in her head, transforming intelligible sounds into a song, a piece of music reverberating inside her being. 

The sun glided gracefully, climbed the sky and hid behind a thick blanket of clouds. In the city, a guard kicked a beggar. A lady wailed for her dead son. A shaman scammed a group of fools. A nobleman rode on his black stallion, and the crowds in the street scampered to the sides, just like how the red sea parted for that guy from strand 151. Red had been in touch with the nobleman, a scientist of the King's Hall of Worthies, and helped him with his project of the astronomical globe and metal weaponry. Crude, ancient technologies, of course, but a  necessary advancement for the Agency's mission to win this war. 

Red had done her part, and frankly speaking, she didn't really care about the Agency anymore. She still desired to be victorious, but she would do it her own way. Red had a plan, an elaborate one, mapped and programmed in her brain. It might take centuries of braiding and unbraiding the threads, slipping illegal malware and viruses into different strands, manipulating her vision to deceive the Agency. 

She watched in silence as a palanquin passed through the crowded main street of Hanseong. Vibrant blue and gold-threaded fabrics hung from its roof, swaying in the cold autumn breeze. The bearers, four plain-clothed men, marched in unison under the weight of a square wooden box decorated with intricate carvings and the passenger inside it. 

A certain lady—Blue—Red corrected in her mind. She pictured Blue sitting cross-legged in that cramped box, her dark blue silk skirt blooming around her petite waist. Her jacket shirt the color of pale sunrise, embroidered with silver flowers bloomed on her shoulders. A jade and tassel ornament hung from the hem of her jacket. Her hair, black as midnight, was combed neatly and gathered into a tight braid behind her head, tied with colorful ribbons. Blue would wear her usual serene expression, but her eyes would be as watchful as ever. Red giggled at the image, her bluebell flower, looking dainty and fragile in her human body, yet she knew better how strong was Blue, a warrior in a war no louder than a whisper to these occupants of this land. 

Blue had sent a letter, delivered by a courtesan she visited last night. Red watched as the courtesan danced, as she sang, as she whispered Blue's name in Red's ear. My Lord, you have a message. Red used her lips to trace Blue's letter on the courtesan fair back, from the nape of her neck to the hollow of her spine. She inhaled the characters, ink and sweat and warm skin over tender flesh. She imagined Blue writing the letter under flickering candlelight. A smile bloomed on Red's face. Red wished the courtesan was Blue. She wished to taste petals and leaves, pollens and vines. She wanted to harvest Blue with her fingers, her mouth, all of her metal limbs tangled with Blue's earthly body. Red and blue, colors fused together, violet stained where teeth and lips grazed the skin.

She wanted to savor Blue like how she savored the courtesan, like how Blue savored the courtesan before her. Then, on a certain day in the future when they reunited after the war was over—when she won this fucking war—she would reproject again this moment. She and Blue, curled against each other's embraces, watched their memories of the war play before them. It didn't matter if they were in Red's charging pod or Blue's tree alcove. They would laugh at the crimson blood on the soil. They would mourn the ashes from where the fallen warriors would not be reborn. They would embrace when the world crashes and burns, descending into Chaos. They would kiss when a new universe unfolds, when the time begins anew, when letters aren't required to make love true. 

So long, my love, Red whispered to the still-lingering aftertaste of Blue's letter. Her eyes tailed the palanquin until it disappeared, swallowed by the palace’s gate. It required all of the commands in her mind, all of her rationality to not leap down the balcony and halt the palanquin, pulled Blue into her embrace. 

So long, my Aquamarine. But I'll still win. This love and the other thing. 

*

Dearest Cinnabar, my Blazing Crimson

Did you enjoy the girl ? I hope you loved every bit of her just like I did. She's the most brilliant one in the house, they said. And indeed, she is. That pale skin would be a nice contrast to your marks, wasn't it? We spent the night while I wrote the letter on her back, she read me poems and history. And she sings heavenly. She sang me a beautiful lullaby about the destruction of an old kingdom. I thought of you, Red. What would you tell me about that rebellion back then? We had our fair share of burning down the dynasty, bathed its land in blood. Yet here we are again, parading in this new country raised on the top of dead bodies. Human corpses make an excellent fertilizer, have I told you? All those nitrogen and minerals nourished a whole new life, rendering the land lush and green. What a great cycle. I always love cycles.

I hear you're now aiding that Jang Yeongsil guy. What are you planning, Firebird? Logging has become more severe in the northern forest. People clawed their way under the belly of the earth. What do you seek? Sorry to disappoint you, no oil this time. So how will you move your chess piece? Try to possess the king to burn the fire of industrialization faster, don't you? Don't worry, Darling. I've prepared countermeasures. Oh, I won't tell you, though I love you so. 

Aha! Now I bet you're making that face. Don't do that. Don't mock me. I love you, and you know how I burn for you. Interesting isn't it? That love is always described as a burning desire. That loving someone is red, a crimson heart. And how is blue always associated with sadness and tranquility? Isn't the hottest flame bursting blue? That's true. I burn blue for you, Red. Let's not argue. I won this one. And I am going to win the other one. 

Last spring festival, I caught a glimpse of you, Red. You were standing in the middle of the street, head up, watching fireworks explode in the sky. I was watching you from my carriage. Your round hat casted shadow on your face, creating pattern sleeping on your temple and cheek. Shadow and light looked pretty on you. We were just a breath apart, and how I wanted to devour that distance, you wouldn't have any idea. But Garden have me. And the Agency have you. We exist solely in this letter, where you can have me all you want, and I'll have you for myself.

All of you and me, Poppy. All of you and me. In this letter we bleed as purple. In this syllable we build a Royalty. In this sentence we dream of eons far into the future. In this paragraph there's no war. Only us.

I'll find my way to victory. I'll eviscerate both my Garden and your Agency. When this all is over, I'll cross the street to meet you. 

In the meantime, kiss my letter, Cupcake. 

Yours, 

Pureum

[onefortydawn]

Spring, Week 3

(part 2 of young gods)

parts: [1][2]

Two weeks after that afternoon, I met Boo at the secondhand bookstore I told him about before.

The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, lining the street like a long canopy in varying shades of white and pink. Fallen petals covered the sidewalk and asphalt road, bicycle wheels and passersby's strides rolled over them. The sky was so blue and the clouds were so white, everything was so saturated it made me teared up a bit. Overhead, the sun had started the day by pouring all of its love into the earth, warmth and light, dancing with the gentle breeze of spring, blowing kisses over bare skins.

I brushed a few petals from my hair before entering the store. The bookstore was a narrow dull red brick building. There were several stickers stuck on the glass pane of the window and the door, white alphabets spelled the store's name. Treasure Island, named after Robert Louis Stevenson's famed tale, but also illustrated the store as a place filled with various books that might be identified as treasures for those who loved literature. The inside was more spacious than one might have expected from the facade. The boy behind the cashier machine beamed at me.

"Hey! Haven't seen you in a while, huh?"

Gwon was a striking presence in this dull store. In contrast to the piles of yellowing books and gray vines wallpaper, Gwon was full of colors. His hair was a bright shade of silver, his complexion was milky white and smooth. Those characteristics were enough to make him look like a walking light bulb. He wore a multicolored block shirt, red and yellow and blue, which reminded me of Rothko's paintings. Although he seemed rough at the first glance, Gwon moved around with a certain elegance. He possessed slender and lithe stature, a dancer's body of both sharp and delicate beauty.

I'd been a customer at this store since freshman, but Gwon came into the view a few months before the third semester ended. Gwon was a year younger than me. He went to the neighboring school, a small community college specializing in performing art. The first time I met him, he was pushing a cart full of battered paperbacks through the narrow gap of the shelves and almost knocking me off my feet when the cart slipped from his hands and glided past me before hitting the wall. Gwon rushed to me, apologized, and asked me if I got hurt. When I said no, he excused himself to retrieve the cart. The owner of the store, a bald man in his late seventies, shook his head; there was a glint of amusement in his wrinkled eyes. Gwon was the new employee he'd been telling me he would get since his right leg—which was injured in the Vietnam war—started acting up.

He seems pretty reckless, I remarked.

The owner chuckled. "He may not look like it, but he's good."

I thought Gwon would be gone after two or three months. He wasn't much of a reader, to begin with. I'd always thought someone who worked in a bookstore would have abundant love for books. Yet, he stuck with the store for the entire three years. When I asked him what made him stay, he mentioned how the job paid well and the workload wasn't too much and he started reading in his spare time. So for three years and more, I would find him whenever I stopped by the store; behind the cashier machine or organizing books into different metal carts or writing the logbook. Sometimes, on lazier days, I would find his nose buried in the pages of an old paperback. Often, though, he would be glued to his phone, watching practice videos while dancing behind the counter.

On that Sunday morning, Gwon was practicing his moves in the store devoid of customers, save for me, of course. He let me wander among the carts and shelves, rummaging through the mountain of untidied books in the back, picking one or two copies. The unfamiliar music from his dance practice video filled the moldy air in the store. Ceiling fans whirled, producing noises resembling cicada sounds in the summer. Shakespeare, the store's old orange cat, slept on the floor near the front door. His belly went up and down along soft purrs.

When Boo entered the store, Shakespeare jumped and growled before sprinting outside. I turned my head towards the entrance. Gwon stopped moving and paused his video. He waved at the newcomer. The two of them, Gwon and Boo, exchanged friendly remarks and bumped fists. I eyed them in astonishment. Since when did they become such good bros?

But I guessed that was the thing about Boo. He was a hometown with familiar streets: easy to navigate, comfortable to wander in. Boo made acquaintances and befriended people in an instant. He was the type of guy you want to engage with. His pure honesty and boyish charm, the way he threw jokes. The way pink tinted the apples of his round cheeks when he got flustered. Sometimes, behind all of those expressions he wore on his face, I suspected there was a more introverted side of him. But Boo was still Boo through and through, all the reactions he gave out to everyone.

As Boo turned around to dig the nearest cart, I watched him from the row of shelves in the back. Only then did I notice he didn't come alone. Behind him, wearing a grim face and storm-colored sweatshirt, Jevon was looking outside past the dusty window, hands in the pockets of his faded blue jeans. The sharp features of his being broke my view of that sleepy store. It was a thing I noticed about Jevon: he cut through the atmosphere with his serene look.

I didn't plan to greet them, but Boo found me first as he neared the corner where I was standing. With palpable excitement in his eyes, he hopped toward me.

"Hi! You're here!"

It was a hard thing to not smile back and reply in an equally excited tone. He showed me the book in his hand, a yellowing copy of Charles Baudelaire's Les Fleurs de Mal in its original language, French. I raised my eyebrows. That book wasn't used in class.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

Indeed, the book was beautiful. Although the spine was a little bit cracked, the blue linen cover and the gold embossing in the shape of flowers in three branches were gorgeous. We examined the book together. Boo flipped the pages in a delicate motion, trying his best not to break its fragile paper. I couldn't help but spill my thoughts about Baudelaire's poetry, telling Boo it was one of my first introductions to French (the other was, of course, Le Petit Prince). Boo tried to read a line from the book but soon gave up. I chuckled when he rambled about his distaste toward French—his French teacher in high school was terrible, he said. Then, he urged me to read it. At first, I declined. My French wasn't as good as it used to be after my nana passed away. Nana spent her youth in France, as a frontline nurse in the war. She was in love with a French soldier before a bomb took his life. After the war ended, she had a hard time recovering from the grief. So she left her homeland, hoping to leave her heartbreak behind, and board a ship to America. Years later, she met my grandfather, who was also an immigrant from a young country where the war was still gnawing at every inch of its soil. It was through her that my interest in literature and language began. Nana was also the one who taught me French. So when she was gone, I had no one to practice with since I opted for Chinese in high school.

At my reluctance, Boo shook his head and pouted his lips. Come on, he said.

Giving up to Boo's pleading eyes, I flipped the pages until I reached a title I recognized by heart. I read the first stanza of Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne, savoring the foreign yet familiar taste of the words, picturing my grandmother in her cream-colored room, hunched in her blue armchair, a copy of paperback in her wrinkled hands. Her gold-rimmed spectacles were slightly crooked on her long, sharp nose. My dear, she’d said when she caught me peeking from the gap of the open door, come here and read with me. I’d run and she’d sat me down on her lap. She always smelt of powder and jasmine, a scent years later I'd also like to don. Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne. I adore you as much as the nocturnal vault. She'd read me this line while looking into my eyes when I was six. At that time, I thought it sounded romantic. As I grew older and read it over and over, I found it rather grim, like almost all of Baudelaire's poetry.

Once I finished reading, Boo clapped his hands. He asked if I happened to know the meaning, so I translated the poetry for him. His eyes widened. "You're so good!" he said.

Jevon, drawn by Boo's excited exclamation, found his way to us. He glanced at the book in my hand with a look of recognition. I asked him whether he'd read the poetry. He shrugged in indifference, but I could catch a glimpse of faint excitement in his eyes.

"He took French last year," said Boo.

I raised my eyebrows. Jevon was a computer science student. French and computers didn't come to my mind as an ideal pair. But then again, here he was taking a class on English Literature. So I guessed he had enough interest in this topic. Jevon stared past my shoulder, as if the dark alley of bookshelves behind me was a much more exciting spectacle. If he was annoyed by Boo’s meddling, sure he didn’t show it. "His girlfriend’s French," Boo added.

So that's why, I nodded. Jevon picked a book from the cart. This time, it was a battered paperback of Victor Hugo's Les Miserable. He said he could never read past a hundred pages of that book. "She kept pestering me to read but it's rather boring, isn't it?"

I haven't finished that book, so I shook my head. In grade twelve, I tried to read it and found the first few chapters were exciting. I wonder why I stopped reading, though. But that time I might be too busy with exams and university applications, so reading a novel that thick might not be in my best interest. I asked Jevon in a lighthearted tone about his girlfriend's response to his opinion. He chuckled and said she was a little bit disappointed.

It was his awkward and quiet laugh that I found quite interesting. A stark contrast to Boo's or Gwon's heartfelt laughter, there was a hint of restriction in Jevon's smile. He reminded me of those sun-drenched autumn afternoons, warm but not scorching, with cold, furious wind blowing over the clouds.

We chatted for a while. Apparently, Jevon took a keen interest in languages. Aside from French, he also picked some others: Chinese and Arabic, also the study of classics. He wasn't fluent in any of them, but he found the shaping between cultures and languages fascinating. Boo joked that his friend did that all to impress girls. Jevon laughed it off, in his low voice, saying it's perfectly natural having the desire to impress others. He gave us examples of animals in mating seasons. "And what are humans, if not animals with giant egos thinking they're superior."

Boo rolled his eyes and elbowed my left arm. "He's kinda insufferable, isn't he?" Boo glanced at me, then gestured toward Jevon, who shook his head in amusement. I looked at them: Jevon with his half-smile and Boo with a playful glint in his eyes. Something inside of me stirred. It was such a pleasant picture, and in one way or another, I understood their exchanges. Friends, I thought, was a word suited for them.

We talked some more before Boo and Jevon excused themselves. They brought six copies of clothbound to the cash register desk where Gwon welcomed them with a sunny smile. Boo said the books were for the decorations at their friend’s new cafe. Why don’t you come? He proposed the idea that I should come with them. I declined politely and said maybe other times. Today, I had a plan with my friends. With a look of dejection, Boo nodded. You have to come! Boo shouted while exiting through the door. Jevon had to drag him so that Boo didn’t hinder the entrance. I watched them until their silhouettes vanished from my field of vision.

“Such an exciting bunch,” Gwon commented. When I turned my head, I found him staring at the door, his fingers tapping the surface of the counter in light motions.

“I know.” My voice came out as a whisper. I walked toward the cashier and laid two paperbacks on the countertop, letting Gwon calculate my goods. He put the books in a brown paper bag while I handed him the cash. We said goodbyes. I asked him to give my regards to the bookstore owner, he assured me he'd tell the old man, and with that, I concluded my visit to the store.

But as I walked down the street, now and then my eyes caught small cafes and eateries. I couldn't help but think about Boo's invitation, picturing how the eatery looked like, where the copies of clothbound would be placed, what kind of delicacies were served, which friend of his owned it. Maybe someday, maybe someday; my thought was drowned in the noise of people and vehicles, all the music this city provided.

[onefortydawn]

letters, #5 (one day)

One day you wake up and see the world is doing fine. It runs just fine. The people seem fine with laughter in their eyes and overflowing words seeping through the crack of their lips. They sing and argue. They spin and dance. They love and be loved. And you're thinking how unfair it is that they're laughing and talking and carrying their days just fine when yours collapsed. 

One day you wake up and the realization hits you on the head. They say time will heal: one day you'll forget all the bad things and forgive your scars. And your sadness is only a temporal mess. You can stop a while and catch your breath. To drown your head in the deafening silence. To mend your broken heart. But one day you'll need to get up. One day you'll need to grab their outstretched hands and walk again. And run again. Because the world doesn't care about your pain. It keeps spinning and hurtling and if you remain stationary it will crush your bone, break your heart into pieces. And time won't wind back. It stretched towards infinity, staying true to its trajectory.

They say life is a struggle, and this world is the battlefield. People are waging their wars against time. To conquer their frailties. To preserve good memories and discard the bad ones. But one day you'll learn how to make allies. To keep them close so that you'll never feel lonely even if this world abandons you. This is how time will heal: it promises you one day, someday, somewhere along its quest to reach eternal silence. 

We know all promises are volatile. Maybe, perhaps; all those possibilities we curate in life. But one day we wake up and find the urge to believe. To hold on a single thread of silver lining. To crawl back into broken reality.

Dearest, the world is so cold. But you have a heart of gold. And a blazing sun, embracing you in its warmth. Constellations full of hopes and dreams. Stronger faith than what it seems.

Dearest, the world is so cold, and wretched, and cruel. Still, one day we are going to win this battle.

[onefortydawn]

character posters for Laras & Yanu from parade ngengat

the beauty of loving someone in silence lies in our best to keep the secret. To avoid our gazes when we meet eyes. to write so that our hearts feel lighter.

[onefortydawn]

yellow

"The yellow is too loud. Or is it this noise? God, there's so much of yellow here. Can we get rid of it?" 

She rolled her eyes and handed me a cold lemonade bottle, the outside of the glass was moist from all the condensation. Overhead, the sun radiated its beams, scorched skin sticky with sweat. The lingering taste of salt smoldered my nose, down my throat. Sour odor tickled my tongue as I sipped the lemonade. My head burst in hues of lemon and canary.

I glanced at her, the outline of her mocking face. There was a glint of amusement in her feline-like eyes, along the curve of her lips. The hem of her custard-colored dress fluttered in the summer breeze. Beads of sweat glistened on her shoulders to the smooth skin along her arms. I thought, I wanted to kiss them dry but the sun had beaten me to it. And she was so loud even with that tiny laughter. It was as if all of these yellow amplified her voice; melded in this hum-colored crowd of the summer festival. The poetーwas it O'hara?ーused that term, hum-colored, to describe the stream of New York City's cabs; buzzing noises of the engines imitating swarms of bees. Here, yellow was for the humming sound she made when she's in a good mood. 

Somewhere in the crowd, someone was singing. A band or something took their place on the corner of the street. The music was dyed in the color of morning sun. Rippled light illuminated their figures. Everything was simmered in noisy glow. She grabbed my hand and started to run. It's summer, she said between gasps and laughter. Let us be young and loud. 

I ran behind her, holding tight onto her hand. The strands of her hair danced in the wind. And the summer festival carried on. And the faraway song serenaded our steps. And all the hues engulfed our beings, down to the bones. 

And it was all yellow. 

[onefortydawn]

door

I can't speak. She has this icy stare stabbing at me. The lump of words strangles my throat. Her gaze is killing me. The accusation she throws through her mascara-licked lashes. I am the suspect. She is the judge.

"You're forgetting me."

It's not—

"I know you're leaving me because I'm not as perfect as you want me to be. Because I can't satisfy you. Because I am not yours."

Those are the words, I suppose. I've grown hungrier and greedier with each passing second. I know she isn't mine and will never be mine, my sweet child baby doll, picture-perfect toy. I used to mold her to be whatever, whoever I want, but now I can no more. My breathing clay, I can't shape her anymore.

This breathing clay figurine has tasted what it is to be loved. Warm skin warm heart warmer soul. She has felt the rush of blood streaming down her arteries. The sound of racing heartbeats. As if magic in the fairytale, love has transformed her into reality. Rendered lump of dirt into flesh and skin. Gave her heart and soul. Gave her courage. Showed her endless possibilities.

That reality chokes me. Suffocates me. Rips her apart from me.

Urges me to leave her.

"Say something, won't you?" Voice smooth as glass, sharp as its broken shard, cuts me cuts slashes inside me.

"You don't need me."

"I don't need you."

Reality hurts. Reality sucks.

"So I'm leaving."

She opens the door. I'm going to go through. Goodbye, goodbye. Tears tear my crumbling heart. I'm going to exit through that door. I'm walking toward it. My body's cold. My steps are rough.

Why does the door look so lonesome? Why does this walk feel so long? Breathe. Breathe. She banishes you from her life. You're leaving. There is no coming back.

Or is there?

I look around and find her standing still at her place, not moving even for an inch. My fingers are trembling. My legs are numb. No matter how far I go, she's there. She is still there.

My picture-perfect toy, sweet child baby doll. My breathing clay figurine, who turned into something real, a person of skin and bones, flesh and blood.

The door still opens.

[onefortydawn]

Eighteen

The cigarette is burning. Red tip against the indigo backdrop of this city. Ashes scattered by the wind. My fingers are stained black. The smell of nicotine and tar fills my lungs, the space between us. Why does the sky look eerily dark? Even with all the lights, and that needle protruding from the ground stabbing the heaven.

“How long do you think it takes for a spaceship to reach the edge of the universe?”

He puts his hands on the railings and leans his body forward. Harsh wind blows on his hair, on his face, leaving a trace of winter on the top of his red nose. Below, the city twinkles.

“We don’t even know if there’s an edge to this universe.”

A sigh comes as a response. His voice is hoarse from the cold. I draw my sight on him, studying his profile. His eyelashes are long and smooth. The way black strands feather his forehead, his temples, the back of his neck.

“So how long does it take to reach New York from here?”

There’s an edge in his question and it leaves my heart crushed.

“Five hours flight.”

“No, I mean by driving.”

“It’s something two thousand and eight hundred miles. I don’t know.”

He murmurs that it’s too far. Seattle and New York and all the roads he needs to take in between. I inhale the cigarette, puff the smoke so that it entangles with his white breath.

A band of street musicians set their stage across us. A strum of a guitar. A cough from the vocalist. The sound of drums. It doesn’t take too long until the intro fills the air.

“Do you know this song?”

“You were seven when this song was released.”

A smile blooms on his face.

“I remember the girls in my class were crazy about this song. They practically sang it all day, every fucking day.”

I can picture him, small and seven, sitting in his seat waiting for Mrs. Brooke’s homeroom. The red brick wall was painted white, pinwheels and papier-mâché lined by the window. Light poured from the white fluorescent lamp, fell on the side of his face. The girls in his class, Nikita or Jane or maybe Louisa, blasting Teenage Dreams from their iPod and singing along to the song, out of tune. He would eye them with a tint of annoyance, shake his head, and turn to the window. He would rather watch the rain falling outside, blurring the edge of the woodland.

“I was seventeen.”

At that time, I was probably in my boring classroom, AP calculus, listening to Mr. Kent’s rough voice explaining the domain of the functions. I might drown in the thought of university applications, the papers and forms, the essays. I might have thought of New York, a city so far away from home. I’d planned to go to NYU at that time.

I didn’t get into NYU. In the end, I went to a small community college in the town. Nothing changed, nothing much. Still the same gray city and its gray landscape, all the muted colors it embraces.

“God, you’re ancient.” His chuckle uproots me from the depth of my reverie. I snicker at him, elbow his side.

“Hey, I was a teenager back then. The song catered to my demographic.”

“And how old are you now?” He tilts his head and looks at me through his long eyelashes.

I sigh. “Do the math, won’t you?”

“You’re twenty-eight.”

And you’re eighteen. You’re so young, so beautiful, eyes so full of wonder it makes my heart clench in pain. You’re so young and pure, the honesty in your simple words when you convey your mind. God, you’re so young it is almost unfair that the years separate us like the earth and the edge of the universe.

The words stuck in my throat. My eyes are wet. My sight is blurry. My fingers tremble. He must have noticed my shaking hand that he takes his jacket off and hands it to me.

I put on the jacket, which has the smell of mint and faint laundry detergent and him. I inhale the scent, trying to store the warmth and the feeling in my lungs. I remember the days when he used to wear my clothes. I remember that yellow cardigan I wrapped him in that winter when he was six. It was Christmas Eve and he was alone. My dad took him home before he went to work. He’s staying here tonight. Take care of him, will you? I’ll be home before midnight. I’ll bring presents. We were both two lost souls trying to warm our cold hearts.

That night we didn’t stay home. I took him to Charlie’s and we both helped ourselves to double cheeseburgers and fries and hot chocolates. His hand was small in mine when we walked on the pavement sprayed with snow. Our footprints were black against white. We counted them one by one. His voice trembled through his gritting teeth. I took my coat off, took the cardigan I wore on the top of my sweater. I was small in stature but my cardigan was still too big for him.

Mom has this. The yellow one. I wonder if mom has her dinner. She’s always working, my mom. I laughed at his remark. My dad is also like that. Always working. He sighed. Well, at least he goes home. Mom is always so far away. Europe and North Africa. Anywhere else but home. My heart sank when I heard that. He was so small, so fragile. So alone.

His lower face sank into the collar of my cardigan. The light from the street lamps was reflected in his bright eyes. Thank you for spending Christmas eve with me. I was about to burst into tears when he said that.

And then suddenly he was fifteen. Growth clung at him like a magical spell. One afternoon he was at my door, standing with his math workbook, asking for help. We sat on the porch, letting summer breeze caress our bare shoulders. I watched him as he wrote down the equation. His nose and jaws were sharper than I remember. His voice had gotten deeper. When he stood up, he was so tall I couldn’t match my eyes with him anymore. My hands looked tiny next to his. Something began to choke my breath.

I was twenty-five. I was twenty-five and my god, I hated myself for comparing him to the guys I’ve dated.

You’re disgusting. He’s a child.

I started avoiding him the day after that afternoon. Works, lies, whatever got me not seeing his face. I went to dates, met people, anything to get him off of my head. But like old clothes, he stayed. No matter how hard I tried, it still warmed my heart when I heard his name.

He came to me with a broken fist that one scorching August day. His eyes were bloodshot. I was taken aback. He should’ve been at school, he shouldn’t be there in front of my workplace. What was he doing?

“You’re leaving, right? You avoided me and now you’re leaving.”

I told him it’s just Vancouver. It’s just three hours away and I’ll still be home every weekend. I lied. I didn’t plan to go home at all. He cried and I couldn’t help but put my arms around his trembling body.

Last summer, I got my master degree from a university in Vancouver, then enrolled for a PhD program in NYU. A professor asked me to teach in her school, a small college in New York. I’ve said yes to that offer, preparing another goodbye to him and everything that tethered me in this place.

And now we’re standing here, looking at the city ready to fall asleep. He has grown up so much since the last time I saw him. He looks like an adult, almost, but he’s still a child. I’m about to leave again. Him, Seattle, this murky sky and wet bites of wind.

“Is it colder in New York?”

“I don’t know. They say winter feels longer here.”

He seems thoughtful for a while. “That’s good, then. You’re terrible with cold. I’m going to Cali for university. I’m going for those warm days.”

He’s eighteen and preparing for university. He has a whole life ahead of him, all sunny days under the pouring warmth of rays. Friends and youth. Girls and boys of his age. He might fall in love with one of them. God, he’s so beautiful and I’ve walked past my decayed youth.

“Will you miss me?”

I know I will search the traces of him in the students I’m going to teach. Perhaps that boy in the corner of the class, spinning a pen in his hand, gazing lazily outside the window. Or that guy, walking in long strides with his long legs. Or that one who plays guitar. That boy with crescent moon laughter in his eyes. Someone might have a voice that reminds me of him. When I look around I might find somebody humming to his favorite song. Boys of his age, boys who are so beautiful and brilliant in their youth.

The cigarette is no longer burning. I crush the stub with the heel of my shoe.

I’m going to miss him.

[onefortydawn]

sunrise

She stirred in her sleep, eyebrows knitted, lips pressed. Her fists clenched. She mumbled something. It was inaudible.

I couldn’t sleep that night. Back pressed against the wall, blanket draped on my lap, eyes wide open. It might be the caffeine I took earlier. It might be the anxiety. Nights were usually kinder to me. But then again, tonight wasn’t the usual night.

She grunted.

I inched closer, touched her cheek with my cold fingers. Her eyes fluttered open. She blinked. Eyes met eyes. For a moment, she was in a daze. Then, her fists relaxed. Her lips parted. She took the air into her lungs.

“Wanna see the sunrise?”

She nodded.

We climbed the hill after ditching our rented jeep on the street below. The journey wasn’t easy. I stumbled several times, but she grabbed my hand every time, steadying me. Fog and mist blurred our vision. Dispersed illumination from our flashlights revealed a rocky road beneath our feet. My nose was hurt from air pressure. I pulled my jacket tighter. She did the same. Our breaths came out as tangled wisps of white smoke in the air.

The road ended in a small clearing. Iron fences surrounded the peak. They gave out a silverish glow under feeble moonlight. I put my palms on the surface of the railing. The iron was cold, ice cold.

She took out her phone from the pocket. The light from the screen shone on her pale face, illuminating her red nose, red cheeks, her delicate lips.

I took out my phone, scrolling through the notifications. Unread messages. Unanswered calls. I ignored the messages and the calls.

“Your boyfriend?”

Her voice trembled, half-drowned in curiosity. She gritted her teeth through the cold. I shrugged. She was right. My boyfriend kept on sending me his terrible apologies.

I looked away from the phone, finding a crack of blue near the eastern horizon. Soon, it spread, white and then golden yellow. The sky was tinted in reddish glows. Light rained on earth. First, whitish lines were tearing through the dark. Then, the shining halo of the sun. Blood-red sun, blood-red dawn.

She snapped pictures. The dawn and the sun and the boiling horizon. The sky. The forest below. The sea, far away to the northeast, gleaming blue and gold and white. The first sunlight of the day fell on the rippled waves. My cheeks were cold, my fingers warm against my phone. I watched her walking towards the railings. Her eyes were wide with wonder as she inhaled the morning, salty breeze and woody breeze, the smell of the dew wetted the grass.

She looked around, held up her phone, pointed the camera in my direction.

Snap!

“I took your picture.”

Her voice was warm. My chest was a blazing fire.

She grabbed my arm and pulled me close. Her hair was damp and smelt of the inn’s shampoo. She showed me her phone. Her fingers swipe the screen. Picture after picture: the sky and the sun and the ocean and the forest.

“You’ll send it to your daughter?”

Her reply came with a small nod.

I saw golden sun in her brown eyes. I saw the ocean in her smile. Cruel, cruel woman. I would never have the sun and the ocean of mine.

[onefortydawn]

Spring, Week 1

(part 1 of Young Gods)

parts: [1][2]

I met those sun boys in my final year of college.

I was working on my thesis and the professor, who was my advisor, suggested that I took the job as a teaching assistant in his class. He said it might help me with my research as we could easily communicate and discuss it. At that time, I was still kind of vague with the choice of my topics, torn between selecting criticism on postmodernism or classics. With that new job, the direction was somehow clearer. The professor taught Introduction to Romantic Literature in his elective course, so naturally, I was more inclined to pick the related topic.

As it was an elective course, we had participants from various faculties, not limited to literature or Liberal art students.  On the first meeting, the professor asked the class to introduce themselves and their major. I sat at the corner, jotting down names and departments in my notebook while trying to make out the faces of the students. Some lit with excitement, some were somber, some plainly bored. I didn't know their motivation for taking this class. Perhaps they thought it was the easy way to fill their credit—there's always this misconception that taking an elective course on literature as a filler was an easy way to earn them A+. Yet, there was something thrilling about how different minds, different backgrounds would meld in this subject.

My sun boys were also taking the said class, that was how I came to know them. Back then, in our first class, they sat in the middle row, the four of them, each face wore different expressions from one another. Even in that classroom filled with artificial white light from the fluorescent lamps on the ceiling, I thought they were rather standing out from their mundane surroundings. There was something about them: the way they interacted with others, the way they spoke or laughed I couldn't quite pinpoint. Only then, when I saw them one particular sunny spring afternoon at the schoolyard, I understood.

That year, spring dipped her toe too early. On earth, colors started to flourish, raining on flower petals and greeneries. I liked to think of spring as a maiden with plump and rosy cheeks, blushed as she encounters the first taste of romance, the rush of young blood in her veins awakened the world from its deep slumber in the previous winter. I had been holed up in my room all week long, suffering from pollen allergy, when the professor called me to his office.

So I printed the outline of my thesis in a hurry, bought a cup of coffee from one of many cheap coffee trucks littering the street leading to the campus, and quickened my pace toward the eastern side of the university complex. The professor's office was located in a small pavilion across the campus building. I had to go through the open yard where giant willows started turning into pale green; serrated leaves hanging over freshly cut grasses. Here and there, students sat on the ground with their books or group of friends, the wind blew on the strands of their hair. Warm rays poured from the blue sky above, as if the sun itself couldn't wait to kiss those intelligent beings; the children of human, breathed-clay figurines.

And among all of that, I saw them.

They sat under the shade of a gray willow, not yet growing its leaves. The four of them, my sun boys, were deep in conversation. Books and papers and coats were scattered around them. Cigarettes in their fingers, empty beer cans and liquor bottles dotted the ground. Sunlight seeped through the gaps of branches, glimmering on their hair and side profiles. Then, they laughed and the sound of their laughter was crisp in the air, mingling with the scent of spring. For a moment, I stopped on my track. My eyes traced their perfectly outlined figures, all the curves and the shadows, the shapes of their smiles, the vividness of their colorization.

It was strange because I thought I was looking at a picture all of this time I only constructed in my head. They reminded me of a faraway time, somewhere deep in history. A group of close-knitted friends and their brilliant minds, bonded together, ready to challenge the world. I was looking at Wordsworth and The Lake Poets, Tolkien and the Inklings, Hemingway and those fellows of Stratford on-Odeon.

Boo was the first one who noticed my presence in that afternoon frame. He wore a crimson polo and a pair of washed-up blue jeans, his tennis shoes were so worn out they were no longer white. He was about to drink his beer when his head turned towards my direction. Upon seeing me, his eyes widened. A smile bloomed on his ever-so-smiley face. We didn't talk much in class except for the assignments, but here and there we would exchange polite greetings; after the class ended, when we bumped into each other in the hallway, sometimes when we lined up for coffees or lunch.

There was one time we talked much longer than usual. A week ago before my allergy got the better of me, he plopped down on the chair next to me after the class ended and handed me a paper. I looked at him, one eyebrow raised, questioning. Boo had this shy grin as I took the paper and started reading.

It was the list of that semester's reading materials. He had underlined some titles and wrote down question marks at the end of some others. The library had run out of them, he said. He'd checked both the main and faculty library, but didn't find one. Boo asked if I happened to know where to get the remaining titles. I gave him the name of a secondhand bookstore not far from the university, the one where I got most of my books. Our conversation stopped after he said thank you and got up from his seat. I returned his wide smile with a polite one.

That scene blurred in my head as the warmth of the afternoon sun crept on my face. When I blinked, Boo raised his hand, and in his full smile shouted at me, saying my name.

The corners of my lips stretched. I waved back at him. He gestured to me to join him and his group of friends, who glanced at me with curious stares. But I shook my head to decline. Boo's mouth was shaped into a circle, full of acknowledgment. I nodded before resuming my footsteps, crossing the too-short-cut grass of the yard.

I might have already noticed, it was a foreboding adoration I would develop over the following months. Yet at that moment I didn't think much of it, because the weight of papers in my hand was telling me I had to go, leaving my boys in the embrace of their lover, the sun.

[onefortydawn]

what was left from a long-passed post-break-up blues

I didn’t think I would run into you in this place. Out of all places in this city, among the busy steps and the loud noises of people, the porters and the station crews, the train’s whistles and hurrying passengers, seeing you in the middle of this chaotic buzz is too much for a coincidence. Perhaps it’s the way you caught my eyes in an instant. You’re standing there in the sea of people swarming the waiting area, in your faded jacket and jeans, a black backpack slung over one of your shoulders. You didn’t see me, your eyes were glued to the murky sky above. One time you asked whether the sky is singular or plural. Of course it’s singular, I answered. You laughed. Of course, you’re always the one in the logical realm. You said different places have different skies, different colors and different stars. But isn’t it just the product of earth rotation? On different patches of the earth we see different perspectives.

You’re now peeling your eyes off of the sky. I stop on my track when our sights crash. There it is, the way you arch your eyebrows slightly and the confused look in your eyes, so familiar to me even after years blotting your image out. For a moment, I hesitate. If I took a step closer, would I burst into tears under the crushing weight of shattered memory? But there it is again, that reassuring smile along the curves of your lips. That one night when my hands were shaking so badly after I exploded at the class dinner and I ran to your place almost out of my breath, you had that same smile welcoming me and it soothed my aching heart.

I count my steps. One two three four. One two three four. The sound of the soles of my shoes hammering the square tiled floor is loud in my ears, even in these maddening noises. I used to run, sprinting towards your open arms. Not anymore. I guess nowadays I’m used to walking in small paces.

“You’re here.”

There’s no hi, or hello, or any greeting of two people meeting after a long while. In your casual tone, it’s as if I never left, as if we never left and you were expecting me to show up for a date we planned. You ask if I’m going home and I say yes. So are you. We’re both going home, different homes, in this city where everything began and ended, buried beneath dreams and ambitions. You ask if someone’s going to get me. “Yes, I’m waiting for someone.” You don’t ask anymore. We stand side by side, watching the sky breaking apart into harsh summer rain, our arms almost touching. If I move a little bit I’ll be able to hold your hand in mine.

I keep my hand for myself.

The rain is a red sign, a warning. The moment I dare to hold your hand again then every wall I’ve built will crumble down in no time. It was the rain that knocked some senses into my head when I realized we were not going anywhere with what we had. The cold, summer rain, just like this one. That time when you were all soaked up and I was warm. Open the door, we need to talk. Your voice was cutting scars onto my heart.

Truth to be told, I didn’t understand. Back then when we ended things off, I didn’t feel hurt at all. The scars were made upon layers of pity, of all the time I wasted on loving you over leftover feelings and old memories. We should’ve stopped walking together a long time ago, all the way before our hearts went numb. We should’ve left when there was still an ounce of innocence and conscience, when there was still pain gnawing on our hollowing souls, so that it would look more like a proper breakup than just pulling a stop and drifting apart. So that it proved we’ve tried at least, salvaging the remnants of whatever we had. Some friends told me how you were trying to make everything right, to put mismatched jigsaw pieces into their designated spaces. But I know you were not trying to save us. It was your ego you were trying so hard to keep from falling down, to keep yourself from drowning in the severe gaze of this world.

So did I.

It wasn’t your fault that everything turned cold. I blamed the weather, I blamed the season, I blamed earth rotation, I blamed the tropical storm crossing the continents. I blamed the too-hot sun, or the rain, or the hail. The humidity in the summer or fallen leaves in the fall. I blamed every flaw this world offered, but I never blamed you. So I’d like to tell you something. Time is true; it heals. But when there’s no wound it will create one instead. It cuts our insides, bit by bit, gradually. First, shallow scratches. Then, deeper scars. It consumes everything, from our souls to our beings. It empties feeling out. So I blamed the time. Time transforms once blazing bonfires into ashes.

You run your fingers through your hair, I watch as black strands part under your touch. I used to do that, running my fingers through your hair when you put your head on my lap. I heard that knees make a good pillow when you’re tired. Even in the vagueness of my memory, I remember your pallid face and faint voice. Come here and rest. I’ll kiss your weariness away. And as you fell asleep I muttered prayers between broken lullabies. I don’t remember what I was praying for, but I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.

I notice the ring on your finger. It seems familiar but I might be wrong, perhaps it just looks similar. Back then you also gave me one, a matching pair of your own. I said, We’re not married. We don’t need to do this. You smiled and replied, Maybe someday. We were once excited for this someday, for the upcoming days. I’m still excited for the future, but not with you. Not with us. I guess so are you. You might have the other ring on someone else. I hope it lasts. I hope you’ll never have to take it back.

The rain doesn’t hold back. People are running with their soaked clothes and umbrellas; dirty shoe prints crisscross dull tiles. I trace the outline of your face in silence. Eyes and cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, sharp jaws, the place where your neck meets shoulder blades, I once loved them all. I can’t remember when they started to look the same, then you also started looking like everyone else and not someone I love. A woman sprints past us. Tap tap tap. The sound of her heels knocking the floor. Her wet jacket splashes droplets on your left cheek. I hand you a piece of paper handkerchief. You mutter a thank you and use it to wipe your face dry.

“Are you waiting for someone?” I wonder what you were thinking when you saw me earlier. Perhaps I looked like a nightmare came true. Or maybe I just looked like everyone else, a tired passenger sick of those trips. And now you’re waiting for someone. Someone who doesn’t look like everyone else. Someone who looks like yours.

“The rain. I’m waiting for the rain.” You crumple the paper handkerchief into an ugly ball. Your knuckles are white.

I stare at the tattered sky, the negative colorization of the clouds. “It won’t let up anytime soon.”

You let out a small laugh. I’ve forgotten how much you dislike rainy days. You used to stay all day long inside when it rained. Except for that one night when we blew things off. I guess you haven’t changed much. But I wonder if your skies have changed; I wonder what kind of sky I am in your world. I was once the bluest sky or the rosy-tinted one, orange dusk or indigo dawn. I think I’m this steel gray sky, pouring rain and brewing hurricane. I might be the cloudy one. I want to be the sunny one with gentle drizzles trickling down.

My phone rings. I take a look at the screen. “I’ll go first.”

“Take care.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey.” I look past my shoulder and find your face lights up.

“You look well.” Yes, I’m doing well.

“You too.” I’m glad you’re looking well. I hope you’re doing well.

I count my steps away from you. One two three four. One two three four. I’m thinking of looking back, to gaze at your face for the last time. To store your skies in the back of my head. If I looked back, would you still be there, staring at the pattering rain? If I looked back, would you hold my eyes for a little while? Then we would smile at each other, just like what we used to do.

I don’t look back.

I walk past the line of passengers queueing for the departure. A little girl screams as her father waves his hand. I look around. There he is, standing near the entrance, phone in his hand. His eyes are scrutinizing his surroundings. He doesn’t look like you at all. He doesn’t look like anyone at all. He looks like him, in his t-shirt and baseball cap. He looks like mine. I quicken my paces, running towards his waiting arms and take his hand in mine. He gives out a relieved smile.

“Welcome back.”

I’m home.

[onefortydawn]

letters, #4 (joy)

Dearest,

I think pretty is never enough to sum everything about you, but still I think you're one of the prettiest beings I've ever seen.

Seven years ago when I met you, I was bored of all these mundane things in life. My love for things was toned down, everything was dyed in muted colors. The songs I used to love were tiring me out. The books I used to read blurred into hazy rows of words. Every day was the same old movie playing over and over again like a broken reel.

It was your dazzling smile that brought colors to this gray world. It was your timid "hello" and my heart was all yours. It was the tinkling glass in your voices that wind my music box once again, so I could play my favorite songs over and over again.

And whatever, whenever—every time I see your side profile and the glint of light in your eyes, and the strands of your long hair against rosy cheeks, swayed by gentle wind, I always think back to that time. And every time you cry it leaves me scarred because the thought of losing you dreads me. But I know it is not all about sunshine and flowers and gentle drizzles. And even if you bring the storm I will stand in the middle of squalling wind or torrential rain or raging hail. Then when the dark days pass we will see the clearest sky, together, even if we're apart the rainbow will bridge our longing hearts. And the sky is endlessly blue. And the city is filled with light, day and night. And all the roads seem to lead me to you. And this feeling is true.

We still have a long way to go, highways and avenues, bumpy roads to get through. There are still many things we don't know in this finite universe: sciences and politics and economy, the weight of the war our people are waging. Shapes of our emotions. The unknown futures. There's so much to learn, so many wonders to discover and rediscover. You held my hand and said, "let's go to see the world, the two of us". It might take forever but for now it's enough, step by step, day by day.

You show me it takes time for a flower to bloom, it takes sunshine and rain to grow things, and pain is never for eternity. This is a confession for you've brought so much joy and colors into my bleak world. And someday even if our paths ever diverge I'll treasure this feeling more than anything. Then when you call my name I'll look back fondly to these brilliant days, a heart full of gratitude.

[onefortydawn]

letters, #3 (spring)

I hope you slept well last night.

I hope you cried your heart out. It's alright. Don't be afraid of tears. Tears are the kindest type of saltwater. They wash the loneliness away and make your chest lighter.

Have you seen the cherry blossoms? I heard they're very pretty in spring. I'm sure you've seen them. Perhaps in the car on your way to work or back home. Please take a look at them, spare them a glance maybe. Tell me the color of their petals. Is it pink or is it white? Tell me about the sky. Is it blue or is it gray? I hope you see the prettiest sky, be it blue or gray or rose-tinted, boiling dusk or radiant night sky. Are there any clouds up there? I wonder if you also like to guess the shape of the cloud. There, a bear. Here, a train locomotive. A hammer. A heart’s broken in two. A pair of clasped hands as if someone's saying a prayer.

I'd be glad to go with you on a picnic, to the sea or to the park. To see the waves or the clouds or the flowers. To smell the scent of dew and damp soil or saline. To feel the wind on our faces. To bury our toes into the warm sand. To listen to the symphony, or cacophony, it doesn't matter. You can always transform them into your favorite music. I'd like to stay with you, telling each other's stories and worries, walking under raining petals or showering sun rays. But I can't. It's thousands of miles away. And there's no spring here. I wish I had spring, so I could take a picture of the cherry blossom and send it to you. My land is graced with twin seasons, each the opposite of another. A long, hot, dry, yet strangely humid days followed by equally long days of rain showers.

But April—April is the time they hold hands and spin together. A dance of drizzling droplets and plenty of sunshine, smudging colors in the pallid sky.

Even if the poet said April is the cruelest month, we can make it a little bit kinder.

I hope you have enough sunshine there. I hope you love it when it rains and the sound of water pattering the earth soothes your soul. I hope when you look at the flowers and the clouds and the sky and sunlight filtering through leafy branches you'll remember only beautiful things. That you'll never be alone on this luminous sphere hurtling and spinning in the darkness of space. Sometimes you might feel so lonely, it's okay. Human beings are constructed out of loneliness, that's why they seek each other. Adam was lonely before Eve was created. They were lonely when God exiled them from the Garden of Eden and placed them on the opposite sides of the earth. I hope you'll find someone, something, to drown the loneliness and put your heart at ease.

I hope you slept well last night. And when you woke up this morning, your heart was light.

I hope the world will be better. I hope the days are tender. I hope your heart gets stronger. Today, tomorrow, to the distant future.

[onefortydawn]

birthday postcard

March is for funerals.

Past the dead season, under the murky sky pouring lazy sunray, a transient warmth kisses cold-bitten skin. A tattered seam of seasons it is, and as the earth is thawed, we dig it before the rain pours.

A soul—too old—too weary for this life is laid in the wooden casket. We place flowers all over: magnolias and roses and lily-of-the-valleys; sweet scent mingling with the decaying odor of the ground. We huddle together, say our prayers in silence, begging for the south wind to carry them.

Who—what are we praying for?

My dear, my beloved. We pray for all the impurities this world has tainted us. March is for funerals: dark thoughts in your mind and anger in your heart. The anxiety you keep deep inside. All those withered dreams and hopes. Those nightmares winter has blown into your sleepless nights. We lay all of them down. Under the heaps of colored petals, beneath the foggy glass cover of a casket—a humble tribute we offer to the hungry gods of this land, so they'll clear the mist in our hearts.

And what comes after the funeral?

A birth.

For March is also for births.

The hardened soil turns moist. A sprout, small and pale, reaching for the sunlight from the darkness. Streams trickling from the sky water it; the earth nourishes it; patiently, like a mother cares for her infant.

And that sapling, pale and fragile, is a newly grown hope. A new dream awaits to see the world. We will tend it with care and love, so it can flourish: strong roots and trunk, leafy branches to take shelter from the smoldering sun, plenty of fruits to satisfy our hunger, a place to rest for a while when we're tired. A tree of life.

[onefortydawn]

letters, #2 (colored stones)

My first memory of you consists of an outstretched hand and a smile. I don’t remember much of the smile. Was it a faint one? Was it a bright one? Was it a cautious one you’d use for those occasions when you meet someone new in life and you’re not quite sure if that someone would patch or rather tear your world apart? I bet it was the latter one.

We exchanged smiles and greetings and names; hand met hand. The wind was cold and harsh, but sunlight was hot, scorching our skins as we marched together on the pavement leading to the campus. All dust and sun and exhaust fumes. You took off your coat and held it with your two hands. I don’t remember the color of your coat. Was it blue or was it red? In my head it was black because what I have is a black and white picture of that day. Funny isn’t it? I do remember that exact moment but forget the colors. You know how much I love colors.

Seventeen was an arrogant age when we thought we had the world in the palm of our hands but it was just us teenagers pretending to be adults. We got our ID cards and shed white and grey uniforms. We were starting something new, sketching dreams and futures, closing off uneasiness with sutures disguised as youth. Our bond was a bizarre one. We were never really close but also never distant. We built walls marking our safe homelands. You had your own band of friends and I had mine, though we both rather melted in the crowds. School was a blur chain of events; it was splattered with colors, lines and mottles, looking like Jackson Pollock’s paintings I can only see through the monitor. Or a movie. It was as if we pushed fast forward button; years leaped after years, stretched over and over. 

And then time blinked and we're no longer teenagers playing pretend. Suddenly we’re adults begging the world to be a little nicer, a little kinder, a bit tender for our fragile hearts to handle. It’s strange when we’re apart we’re the closest. I don’t remember how things escalated, see? memory did its odd work. One day I found us exchanging regular text messages and occasional video calls. You know how much I despise video calls. 

Another significant memory of you is a public car ride and cigarette smoke, engine noises and people talking voices. You probably don’t remember this, because, pardon me, your memory sucks except for those songs you sing in the karaoke room. There was this talk on humanity and capitalism and how the genesis of life began. There was talk on marriage and we both wondered how two strangers decided to spend their lives together with their jagged habits and mismatched souls. I couldn’t quite understand, I still don’t. But I will get it if one day someone ever wants to spend his whole life being together with you, I do understand. You’re worth all the stars and planets in this universe; someone great’s lifetime.

Years later, we are so used to that kind of conversation. We’re so different yet we find many common grounds. Funny that we’re both terrible at comforting others but we’re still each other’s comfort zone. For us, it’s always those song exchanges and silly things and random talking. The messages littered with complaints about the weather or how to choose dinner or philosophical musings jumping out of nowhere. Train rides to meet our faces against the city’s skyscrapers. We know both of us hate train rides and their jostled passengers.

Memories are colored stones scattering in my mother’s garden. Some big some small some mere smithereens as fine as sand. Some clean and smooth, some roughly cut. They are beaten down by weather we named as emotion; rain and wind and sunlight, sorrow and anger and joy. Some keep their vivid colors, others turn pale in their lack of saturation. We pick ones when we want to remember. Others are The Forgotten, waiting their times to surge as Reminiscence. 

My little stones didn’t bear many colors last year. Everything was grey and black and minuscule. I don’t even want to remember; their rough edges and sharp edges have cut my soul. Yours, too, might have been scarred by them. I hope you’re all healed up. Mine are still bleeding; black ink seeping through the bandage you gave. I collect those ink drips in a bowl and use them to write, because it’s always you who reads each and every sentence I scribe. You know how much I love to write. 

So I wrote about my favorite things: little stones and colors, memories and remedies for weary souls, you and your favorite people. This whole nonsensical letter I put on the façade of the earth for the world to see. This crude confession I hope you will read. 

Happy New Year. All of those little writings you send me at the beginning of each year even though you say you don’t write long messages. Thank you for being an anchor when gravity betrayed me; the paints when the colors were washed away from my world; the faint light of a lodestar in the North. 

Happy New Year, Ann. May the grace of the stars stay in the palm of your hands.