A Storm

Everyone is variable. I thought I was the only variable of the equation of my life. I was wrong, very wrong. People around me move forward, hit the ground, deteriorate, love me, hate me, estrange from me, get close to me, levitate, frustrate, get drunk, become holy, love the devil, and never stop.

At the beginning of this year, I wrote a spontaneous sentence starting with “It could happen…” And one of them seems really happening now. My life can be shifted in the way that I have never projected due to the variable that I mistook as a constant. Ironically, this is the way that I secretly anticipated. Somehow my mind got frozen, vibrating like a large bronze bell hit by an ambitious blow.

Rain, wind, the gloomy sky. Grey, wind, the darkening sky. The blue jay. The geese couple stands so confidently on the road as if they can defeat any foes even the vehicles dashing towards them without slowing. The color of grey-blue forming with many layers calls forth a storm. I feel the wind on my face and my body. Standing still. What is it? What is coming? Did I call it as the clouds in the sky called the rain? Is it coming to me without any notice? The gushing wind warns me. Go inside, go inside. I should. But I stand on the same spot and dare to watch the frowning wind. The deep furrows among the angry clouds. Did I want to be someone? Or something? The big raindrops hit my face. What is coming? What will soak me? What will soak me inside out? Where do all the animals go in this merciless weather? How can they survive when they don’t have any inside to go to?

Life. Moves and stops. It usually stops when it isn’t expected to stop. Sometimes, it pushes me forward. Or pulls down. Or snaps my hair in the back with a sudden motion. Levity. Give me wings, so I can fly. Make me tumble, make me suffer, make me cry, make me anguish, make me scream with pain, make me pull my hair in the darkest night, make me deceive, make me be deceived, make me fall on my knees, make me lay my head in the cold pit, cover me with giant waves. But don’t take my wings. I brush them every night before I sleep. Maybe someday I can fly in my dream. But I only remember the falling after waking up. Then even my dream gets heavy. Heavy. Rain. Wind. Grey sky. Darker nights. Where did the small white butterfly go? My helpless wings.

<May 3rd, 2017>


–  dip a bit –

My feeling about my superiority to the other immoral beings has carried on for a long time after that experience. But now, I wonder that what is the right way of living. I wonder if they are the real ones who got more in life, voraciously sucking their life and getting the most out of it. I wonder if I’ve taken less, felt less, and lived less under the name of my moral standard. I wonder if I am on the loser side of the planet under the disguise of a noble mask because I easily give up my fingers holding one side of the dollar bill with my trademark despise towards the greedy people. I think a lot nowadays that she was the one who got full of the scented erasers in life even she stole them. All I got was the empty pride that I felt morally higher than her. What for?

– in “The Scented Eraser” –


We were all looking for something. Some were desperate. Some were just curious. But we were here for a reason. Each one of us had our stories, each one of us had our pain and fear, each one of us had our broken parts, and each one of us had our hope for hope. We supported one another as best as we could with whole hearts and honest minds. Emotions and energies boiled over in every session. Rages and grudges of each one of them exploded and covered the others like hot ashes. We yelled, cried, jumped, danced, hit things, gave out tantrums, laughed, cried again, closed our eyes, opened them, looked at each other as if we looked into a person’s eyes for the first time in our lives, wrote, listened, talked, acted, hugged, whispered, gave hands to support, accepted the others’ hands to be supported, and held one another like one giant melting rock.

– in “Dots” –


When they walk to the garden, the wind sweeps their bodies. It blows away the things spoken and leaves behind the things unspoken.

– in “Decoding”-

A Blue Heart

image2She loves blue; from pale pastel blue like almost pure white to indigo blue like the sky right before the dark. She loves serenity, melancholy, and sincerity of the color. She loves blue jay, blue topaz, blue sky, blue eyes, blue water, the blues, and the things coming out of blue. But she hates some blues though, especially artificial blues; blue roses, blue soda, alien’s blue blood, and blue blank screens in TV or computer. She buys blue stuff; a blue jewel Bluetooth speaker, a watch with blue straps, a blue character key chain, blue suede loafers, blue pens and blue leads for her sharp pencil, and blue post-its. But she knows the blue doesn’t suit her skin even she wants to wear pretty blues badly, the only clothes she got in blue is a sky blue cotton shirt. She loves that shirt very much. And finally, she has a blue heart.

Hearts should be red, or at least pink, but somehow, her heart is pictured as blue in her mind all the time. She bought a small blue heart paperweight made out of recycled glass. Sometimes, she holds it in her hand to warm it up because its coldness feels very sad to her. Her heart is blue not because it is dead or frozen, but because it is bruised. Beaten again and again for a long time. And beaten again before it restores its original color. The blue color of her heart makes her sad, and then, the sadness she feels beats her heart back. Now she can’t distinguish which was the first, the blue heart or her sadness. The two circle on and on with the added force of her life’s events and the others’ lives events because the heart absorbs up the pain of others as well with its soft tissue.

She recognizes people who have a blue heart. The color seeps out of their existences in one way or another. She notices the sadness of the sound vibrating through the strings of viola when R. O. plays. She knows that his heart was born blue. And that blue makes his music different from others, sad and beautiful. She looks at the wolf dog’s eyes who couldn’t belong to any place and notices his lonely heart through his elegant gaze. She can hear Oscar’s scream shattering glasses in Tin Drum and is sad for his beaten up heart. She ached when her friend lost her loving husband for whom she bravely and painfully left her earlier marriage. Whenever she encounters the people with a blue heart, in real life or fictional worlds, she has an urge to hold them tight until they get warm as her glass paperweight blue heart does in her palm.

She knows that the blue heart doesn’t necessarily mean less warm or less active. It moves so frantically that it is difficult to keep it in her chest quiet. It is hot as the blue flame of a candle light is the hottest part. She doesn’t want to close her heart to avoid the life’s beating. The hurt is painful, but the magnificent things come along with it. Beaten, bruised. It is okay as long as it moves. Now she thinks that she chose the blue one instead of the red because she loves blue; from pale blue like almost pure white to dark blue like a bruised heart.

<March 15th, 2017>