With childlike wonder we will travel the world
Just you and me both, a boy and a girl
We would stumble and tumble and look up in wonder
Just you and me both, a boy and a girl
- Write. Breathe. Love. Dream
22 hours ago
"You can't love me." he says to me. Abruptly. Interrupting my reading.
I look at him. Raise my eyebrow.
"You just can't love me." he repeats. As though. Those words will become clearer with no added explanation.
I nod my head. Slowly. Not knowing exactly what he wants. He just stared at me. I looked back at my book.
"Are you listening to me?" he sounds annoyed.
Sighing. I closed my book. And looked back at him. He had changed. His stubble has gotten noticeably thicker. The dark circles has gotten darker and I silently mused as to what has caused them. Me, my answer comes readily to my mind and I smile satisfactorily even though, in all likeness, it had nothing to do with me and more the stress of college getting to him.
Still, this was my mind, and I could think whatever I wanted in it, I say defiantly to myself and then go back to reading signs of change in the contours of his face. I saw wrinkles on his forehead that I couldn't remember was there before, and pimples near his chin. And then wonder about the new one that popped up in my forehead that I've desperately swept my fringe across this morning to try cover it. I nervously pat my fringe again.
I continued exploring like a scientist intrigued by new bacteria. I saw in his eyes a deeper pool of maturity and darkness that I don't recognize, or it could have been the trick of the light because when I blinked, his eyes were once again the same frustrating reflection of all that I could never understand.
It was like seeing an old picture with deliberate changes. And feeling out of place. Like familiar answers ready on your tongue but confused at the questions. Like well worn shoes that someone else borrowed and changed the molding of.
I start to wonder how much of him has changed. When it all changed. Why it has changed. And how much am I going to like or dislike the change. I stare at him accusingly, and realize with surprise that I see the same accusations being thrown at me.
And then I realize, that I've probably changed too. And I wonder, how much of myself has changed. When it all changed. Why it has changed. And how much I'm going to like or dislike the new me.
At any rate, judging by the obvious spite on his face, he clearly didn't like who I've become.
I smile. I like the new me already.
"I'm listening." I say. Remembering - a little late - that conversation was much like a badminton game, and it was my turn to serve.
He must have picked up on my disorientation of social cues because he repeated himself, rather annoyingly, "you can't love me."
"Okay." I reply simply.
"You just can't"
Maybe his repetitions of how I can't love him should be getting offensive. Like I mean, what is that all suppose to mean? That he's too good for me? That I was incapable of loving others as much as myself? That he will never reciprocate and that I shouldn't even try? That he was actually capable of thinking of somebody other than himself in order for him to try to protect me? Is this his way of getting me to fall for him?
But gone were the times when I would painfully analyze every word he threw at me and measure the velocity and rate at which he threw it. Gone were the times in which I agonized my relationship with him as a chess player agonized the wise-ness of the moves in his 64 square inch black and white world.
I have reached a new Zen - so to speak. Sleep, crying, more sleep and chocolate being crucial elements to my new-found state of peace. I've stopped overanalyszing, and choose, for now. to accept all that I have no power to change.
"Okay." I tell him.
There was a tense pause. Like that moment in the badminton game when suddenly, the opponent smashes and you valiantly dive to save it, and everything turns into slow-mo as everyone watches the shuttlecock being slowly pushed back over the net, and slowly dropping, making its way down to a... touchdown (that terminology actually refers to another sport but that's okay, this is my mind).
He stares at me. Sizing his new opponent up. He has never faced this person before. The docile, accepting one. I have always been the screaming with triumph at my victory, gloating and arrogantly striding around like a peacock with one too many feathers stuck up its-.
Well. I am triumphant. But the small smile I give him is more reminiscent of a player, weary from having lost so many rounds and finding very little more to go on on.
"What have they done to you?" he asks me, trying to make a joke out of it but snapping too meanly to be humorous "where did you go?"
"A place of tranquility and hope and all things gentle and feminine." I replied promptly to which he laughed.
I think that's one of the things I miss most about him. Or about the old me. Hearing his laugh, and knowing that it was only I who could make him laugh when he didn't want to.
"I miss you." he says.
Good. I smirk.
He looked at me. And I looked at him.
He was expecting something.
Oh. Wait.
Was it my turn to serve?
OH RIGHT.
"I m-" iss you too.
I stopped. Because I realized how empty that sounded in my head. Because, well, I don't.
I don't miss how I felt when I was with him. Awkward, and confused. Angry and bitter. Up, and Down. How he could make me feel so secure and stable, like we could be forever, and then empty another moment where I would anxiously wait - for weeks on end - for a sign, a call, a text, anything that meant he wanted to talk to me.
I don't miss him.
I just missed, what we had. How we embraced the world by pretending we were invincible, as long as we were together.
But I don't miss who I was.
And I sure as hell don't miss him.
"You know Karl, you can't love me." he says again, softly. "Because I was never much to love."
"You've changed." He says quietly. After I remain adamantly silent. Staring at the book whose words have stumbled across each other, like Chinese characters sparring on galloping horses in search of honor and peace not knowing that they've been running away from it the more they search.
"You don't like it." I say, not a question.
"No." he replies. Honestly. Sincere. "Because there's no me in it."
And again. I'm back down the rabbit hole of madness and self destruction.
 |
| Free Fall - Ed Sheeran |
That's what they said.
I never use to believe them. I would climb up my ladder of hope and dreams and faith, letting everyone know that the Lord will keep me up, believing that with just the right amount or type of faith, that I will never know the feeling of weightless, unending, terrifying free fall.
That's what I thought.
But here we are. Here I am. Falling.
It wasn't even just a slip on the ladder, maybe get caught a couple of rungs down. It was a hard yank, a hard pull down that paper-thin ladder, fabricated with my innermost vulnerabilities, coated with self denial and a faith I thought I could stand on.
Evidently not.
Was God having a good laugh at me? Was it really that funny to play with my feelings? To give me hope, and dangle it in front of me, only to take it back, and tell me that it's not meant for me?
I curse at the wind.
There's a reason for everything.
They said.
Everything good works together for all those who love Him.
They said.
Well you said that last time. And the time before last. And nothing has changed.
I said.
Don't condescendingly placate me.
I yell.
I deserve better than this.
I cry.
Yes you do. I hear a gentle voice tell me.
You deserve better than this. But. I can't give you something new, if you don't let go of that hurt you're clenching so tightly.
He said.
Lean not on your own understanding. Trust me.
He smiled.
Sometimes God lets you hit rock bottom so that you know that He is the rock at the bottom.
They said.
Let it go. Don't let it block you anymore. Be free.
They said.
And I am so tired.
If time heals all wounds, I want sleep to blur the edges of time and bring me to the age of new beginnings.
To watch so many tired souls crying out for Jesus
And it was inspiring
To witness that beautiful re-encounter with He who first loved
And it was beautiful
To see the grateful tears streaming down, the whisper of thanks from the lips and the filling of the heart
And it was God
Who kissed the top of our heads as we hung them in shame
And it was God
Who reminded us that the battle has already been won. That on the cross, he proclaimed, "It is finished."
And it was done.
And it was God.
And it was beautiful.
Youth Camp 2012 was physically, emotionally and spiritually exhausting.
Much goes on in this tired heart of mine.
Keep Your promises Dear Lord. That's all I'm holding on to.
 |
| Thomas Moore: No, there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream. |
I remember my first love.
He didn’t slay dragons and climb my hair to rescue me from
my beast of loneliness. It wasn’t a love-and-must-kill-off-other-suitors moment. There were no pink fairies sprinkling pixie dusts or naked
babies shooting lethal arrows.
In all honesty, I don’t even remember his name. Or his face.
We were 7. Fresh out of kindergarten into a bigger pond
called primary school. School was giving out free and torturous vaccinations of
some kind. All students were required to clench their teeth, bare their souls and allow a sharp metallic needle with an evil glint to puncture our bodies
“for our own good.”
I remember with dread when my name was called, and as I walked
my death march straight into the nurse office with much trembling.
As you can maybe tell, needles and I weren’t exactly
friends. In fact, we met many-a-times in deathly mortal combat. The most memorable
battle being when I had to go to the dentist to remove my traitor of a tooth,
four people (father and nurses alike) had to clamp each of my limbs down as I
screeched bloody murder into the ears of a sobbing dentist who was only doing
what my mother asked.
So it was with all the bravery and courage that my seven year old could muster to not leg out of school that day, running as fast as my pudgy little legs would allow me. And like a war torn soldier with post-traumatic stress, my mind has blocked out every memory of the actual needle penetration event.
So it was with all the bravery and courage that my seven year old could muster to not leg out of school that day, running as fast as my pudgy little legs would allow me. And like a war torn soldier with post-traumatic stress, my mind has blocked out every memory of the actual needle penetration event.
Before I knew it, I was walking out of that room, my face white,
and my small hand clutching my (other) punctured arm so hard, as though should I let go, my
arm would fall straight off. I walked back to my classroom, silent tears
dripping off my chin, my lips trembling, with not a sound.
A bit dramatic maybe. To live life with flair was a style even then my
seven year old self had adopted.
And just when I could bear the injustice of my life no more,
this little boy - whom my mother assured me was my best friend then, instead of
some tall, dark handsome stranger come to rescue thy helpless maiden - came to
me with a little pink hanky that he took from my bag, he wiped my tears away
and fed me chocolate.
And my life was upside right again.
That was my first love.
Chocolate.
LOL. I’m kidding.
I AM KIDDING.
;)
Wherever you are, even if fate no longer entwines our path, I pray for all the happiness to surround you because you once put a smile on my chubby 7 year-old tear-stained face. You are indeed a valiant knight. Dragons should be so bold as to fight you. And beautiful maidens out there should be so lucky to have you.
A Kiss for Corona. Oct 14, 2011.
"Fairytales may not come true, and life may not be happily ever after, but to believe in a world of magic, beauty and chasing after your own dreams is a far better way to live than not believing"
Fairytales were a cruel device used to make girls all over the world believe in something unrealistic; that a knight in shinning armor atop a gallant horse would always be around to save the poor defenseless maiden, that a fairy godmother with a flick of her wand would magic away unfortunate circumstances, that "good" will always prevail "evil", and that one day we could all have our happily ever afters.
Those are the words of a cynic. And this is an age old argument that I've been afraid to spar with. For after all, there have been far greater and more eloquent men and women who have battled it out with each other; fiercely, barbarically, diplomatically, but even so, none has made great headway to either side.
And I'm not going to start.
Instead, I'm going to tell you about a real life victim of those evil goblins and fairytales. She would make a perfect case study for the very subject we're scrutinizing. And whilst living so immersed in the fairytale culture, she grew up just as lost and innocent as the next mortal.
She grew up believing in magic. Her childhood was spent barefooted, hair wild and tangled, running with racoons and dogs saving the life or falling in love with any Johns who crossed her path. She spent countless days under the sea, crooning to fat yellow fishes and crabby Sebastians, all the while combing her hair and staring up at the sky, dreaming of great big adventures and "somedays."
She was anything and everything; she cut her hair and brought "great dishonour" to her family by shaming them to have to be seen in public with her dishelved head. She toiled hard every day cleaning for her ungrateful (step)mother who never appreciated her hard work (I mean, who knew sprinkling soap on the floor could be so...soapy). Many a day her fairygodmother transformed her plain little soul to one of a beautiful princess, so majestic that she would force any of her childhood friends (wonder why there weren't many) to lie down across a "puddle" and she would stomp daintily across them, just so her delicate glass slippers wouldn't get wet.
Oh there were dangerous Arabian nights flying across the starry skies on a rugged flying carpet falling in love with handsome street urchins; countless lazy mornings of refusing to wake up and go to school on the pretense of waiting for her one true love's kiss to awake this sleeping beast. She dragged her neighbour's son, and forced him to become the dragon that she must slay. She was wild, she laughed often, she enjoyed the unreined imagination that only the youth provides, and she fiercely believed in magic.
Of course that enchanting young girl is me.
My childhood was colorful. All that I've described above is merely a glimpse of the fairytale that I lived. People may whisper about the mental development and delusions that a fairytale generation kid may grow up to be, but hey! Look at me, I turned out fine. ;)
Sue me if I believe that the "good guy" always win. Judge me if I want to live a happily ever after. Shut me up in a mental institute wrapped in a straitjacket if I secretly tell you that with just Faith, Trust and a little bit of Pixie Dust, we can fly for the second star to the right and journey straight on til morning to a place where we won't ever have to grow up!
But alas, I never did find Neverland, and had no choice but do the boring thing and well, grow up. And grow up I did, just like any other non-dragon slayer believer. The only probable negative impact Disney has had on me is my misguided notion about love. I am in love with the idea of being in love. The romance. The fireworks. The roses. The too-fast heart beating.
"Karl, you're never going to fall in love at this rate, because you'll never find the right guy unless he jumps right off the covers of a Once-upon-a-time story and knocks you down galloping on his white steed." Thanks friend.
Even if that turned out to be true, I wouldn't give up my childhood for anything because despite the mockery that may follow, I learned a lot of things from my favorite Disney princesses.
The strength to do the "right" thing despite not only facing the condemnation of society, but also risking bringing shame and being ostracized from the very people whom you were trying to protect (Mulan); the patience to see the good in everyone no matter how hard and the capacity to love even the ugliest of beasts because appearances is often only skin deep (Belle); the courage to never give up on life but to embrace it with the hope and fervency of having the world in your hands even if you're locked up in a dark and gloomy tower for, well, ever (Rapunzel).
Truly, fairytales may not come true, and life may not be happily ever after, but to believe in world of magic, and beauty, and chasing after your own dreams is a far better way of living than not believing.
Daughter of Triton. Nov 1, 2010.
Rapunzel. March 11, 2010
The Wind. Nov 7, 2010
These flipping brilliant works of art belong to one very talented Alice X. Zhang. She's just, breathtakingly amazing and her work - which ranges from Disney to Sherlock to Paramore - needs to be shared! Gallery [Link].
We're sitting around the table listening to the friend next to me rant;
"What's the point of running? There's no goal. You're just running and running and it's so boring. You're not going anywhere. It's all-"
And as she goes on, I take a sip of my cup of tea and question myself, why do I love to run? Why do I enjoy it? What's my point?
The first thing that came to mind was, to look good.
That may be true. I initially took up running as a form of exercise to lose weight. I wanted to be thin because that's what society demanded of beauty and damn them if I'm not going to be beautiful. But aside from running, there were a ton of other "better" exercises that I dabbled in, all in the name of vanity; weights, DVD aerobic exercises, swimming, basketball, ping pong, strength training, etc. And along the way, I dropped them all, slowly. But running remained my constant. Mind you, I couldn't be bothered to keep up to a regular schedule. Sometimes I ran thrice a week, sometimes twice a week, and sometimes, I was even lucky to say that I ran once a month.
But it was still a constant. I ran.
But why run?
"What's your goal?" my friend continued oblivious to my silence.
"What are you running towards?"
And then, the reason came so simply.
I'm not running towards anything. Instead, I'm running from.
Running from my stress. Running from my problems. My feelings of inadequacy. I run to get away. To forget. I run so that I don't get stuck. Because I fear that if I stay. I'll drown.
See, if you don't run, you may not understand. Because when I run, I enter this stage where my body takes over my mind, and I don't feel anything but adrenaline coursing through my body and I feel unstoppable. I go into my nothing box and my body is just like a machine going through the gears.
I run so that for at least one part of my day, I don't need to think. And mock me if you will, but having a break from thinking, is a glorious thing to enjoy.
But mind you, once I hit the ten minute mark, my brain instantly logs back on to my body and goes "whoa girl, you've done ten minutes already? Wow. You must be tired! Can you feel that ache in your leg? Why don't you rest for awhile? You've done a good enough job."
And just like that, thinking spoils everything, again.
"Karl. Karl! Where did you go?" My friend waves her hand over my face.
"Huh?" I blinked back to the table with my friends, "oh. Nowhere. I was just, running." I smile at them and take another sip of my tea.
The cold bites on my nose and numbs all my fingers. The icy wind howls about lashing against my face mercilessly. My eyes spring tears at the injustice of it all. My toes are clenched in a battle against the supernatural. I am decked head to toe with layers upon layers of clothing and still the cold seeps into the corners of my weakened soul.
"Ahhh, it's a warm day out today isn't it?" a passer-by, scantily clad jogger yells to another.
"Yup, we're finally experiencing good weather!" the other, just as scantily clad jogger yells back.
And the Asian girl shivering in the middle, her face hidden by scarves and hoodies and 6 layers of other clothing curses;
"screw you all."
P.S - No. I'm not doing too well in cold weather. I now understand the necessity and the advantages of hibernation.
There's a hype and a call as I made my way into the crowded hall. There was stamping and dancing and laughing and calling. The room was spinning, people were clapping and the noise was unbelievable. I stood amazed, staring. Suddenly I felt a strong pull on my hand and I was whisked away just in time to avoid collision with a twirling couple.
"Sorry about that!" the gentlemen yelled out, tipping his cowboy hat in my direction. The lady upon his arm just laughed and winked at me.
"Welcome to the good ol' country dance." My friend - my saviour - smiled at me and was then whisked away by a handsome cowboy onto the dance floor.
Not wanting to feel awkward, I tried to shuffle near the back where the people I came with gathered. But I accidentally bumped into another person on the way.
"I'm really sorry!" I stumbled out awkwardly at him.
"It's no problem." He smiled at me. I smiled apologetic back at him, and tried to ease my way to people that I know. Which wasn't saying a lot because the friends that I were suppose to come with all couldn't come at the last minute but they assured me to come for the "Texan" experience, so with a what-the-heck I climbed into a car of excited girls donned in cowboy boots and beautiful dresses while I shuffled my worn-to-death red converse embarrassingly.
"I'm Michael." The guy who I bumped into continued talking.
"Ohh. Erm." I composed myself, "Hi! My name is Karlyn."
"Hi Karlyn. Would you like to dance?" He extended his hand out to me.
Ohmigosh. Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo was my first, very strong instinct, but was quickly replaced by, what-the-heck. You're already here. You may as well go for it.
"Sure!" I grinned confidently at him as I took his hand and he lead me to the middle.
He put his arm around my waist as I put mine on his shoulder, "errrm, I should warn you! I have never danced before."
"Haha! Then I'll teach you. It's easy. Follow me. It's one two one. One two one. One two one. One two one."
He guided me around the dance floor.
"one two one. One two one. One two one. There! You got it already!" he exclaimed proudly.
I laughed. So I did!
When the song ended, he gave me a twirl.
And just as he let go, my friend who I came with tapped me on the shoulder.
"How was that?!" she shrieked at me over the real live band that was starting up again.
"It was awesome!" I grinned enthusiastically at her.
"Do you wanna dance with me?" She smiled at me and extended her hand.
I took it. And we kicked and danced and twirled trying to copy the moves of the elderly couple in front of us. We ended up laughing and tumbling over each other until even the couple turned around to watch the spectacle we were making of ourselves.
The band never stopped playing and people never stopped dancing. When I managed to have time for a breather, I made my way to the chairs lined at the back of the hall. I dropped down next to one of the girls - Cassie - who came in the same car with me and proceeded to talk to her.
But soon someone came to ask to dance with her, and with a smile and a wave, she left me alone. But I was content. I could watch and soak up the events happening around me without obligation to make conversation.
This was obviously a big thing for the youth of small town Texas. A Friday night dance, where they could all gather and go crazy - in the most that a conservative texan town can -with friends and boys (girls for vice versa).
And the most interesting thing was that this was not just a night that the youth delighted in. Old couples held onto each other, some laughing as loud as the youth and step dancing to the fast beats, and others who would just lay their heads on each other and take their time moving to their own rhythm and pace.
One two one. One two one. One two one.
"Sweet huh?" a voice next to me said.
I looked to see a guy sitting by me staring at the same old couples that I was just watching. "One of my most favorite things about the Oplin dance is watching the elderly couples slow dancing the whole night," he continued.
I smiled, "I would love to do that with the guy I grow old with one day too." I confessed simply.
He looked at me. "My name is John."
"I'm Karlyn."
Just then the current song ended and a fast one came on.
"Come on! We have to dance to this!" He grabbed my hand and we rushed to the happening part of the dance floor. And we danced.
I may have only learned the steps a couple of songs earlier, and I told him just as much, but he still insisted on teaching me new moves. I stepped on his feet so many times it was embarrassing but he just laughed.
"Let loose! Just enjoy and let me lead you. I'll keep you safe." He grinned at me.
Just as he said that, we collided into another couple on the dance floor. After hurried apologies and a few laughs I turned back to him. "Safe huh?" I accused.
"Well, relatively. Just trust me. And have fun!"
And I did. After he got use to me stepping on his toes and I got use to him grimacing and shaking his head mockingly at me, I managed to let go and let loose.
After all, I can't get worse than I already am. And this was my last night in Oplin, Texas.
We swirled the fast songs and glided along the slow ones. He told me where he came from and the struggles he faced coming here and I told him where I was from and the struggles I was facing leaving here. He told me about his dad and family and I told him about mine. We laughed about how non-Chinese the Chinese food was here and groaned alike reminiscing on how restrictive conservative communities are.
The night passed by just like that. We danced with many other people. I danced with boys who were completely at ease dancing with a stranger, and others who were scared to make a mistake. And when there was no boys to dance with, I would grab one of the girls I came in the car with, make them dance the lead role as I had no idea how to, and we would prance around the hall like fools.
And like the true texan dance that it was, the second last dance was the chicken dance! Everyone in the hall made circles and linked arms and hooted and yelled and wiggled to the dance.
But like, all good things, it had to come to an end. Just as the clock struck 10:30pm (which in Texas is equivalent to 12:00 midnight), there was a call for last dance. The girl and I shrugged at each other as we made our way away from the floor to make room for others scrambling to find someone for last dance.
And just then, someone tapped me on the shoulder.
"May I have this last dance with you?" it was my knight in shining boots of course.
I just smiled brightly at him and accepted his hand. He held me in his arms and we danced the last dance together. We didn't talk much, which was a change from the incessant chatter earlier. But it wasn't awkward, and instead of filling the silence with empty last promises, we just enjoyed the music, the place, the people, and that empty capsule of time we had left. Over his shoulder I saw other couples taking their time too. I smiled. Knowing that everything I was seeing then was like a mental photograph taken and kept to be drawn out at a later time for melancholic reminiscence. I focused back on him, making sure to take this mental photograph too.
The song came to an end, and he twirled me one last time and then he bowed. He hugged me and told me to take care and that maybe, we'll see each other one day. I laughed and said maybe.
"We'll see where the Lord takes us." He smiled assuredly.
"Bye." I said.
"Bye." He replied.
And that was that. It was an adventure in itself to round all the girls together to herd back to the car. Once we left the hall, the wind outside was hostile and being typical me, I forgot to bring my jacket so Cassie - a friend I made - and I ran, me howling and screaming at how mean the cold was. We doubled up in laughter running back because we couldn't locate the car, and even when we managed to find it, we didn't know how to unlock the darn vehicle. We were jumping and shivering and hopping around the car hoping that anything we pressed or anything we yelled would somehow open the car and shield us from the impending cold whipping us outside. We managed to open the door by complete accident and fell in breathing hard, laughing so hard we can see our foggy breaths.
During the long drive back to Abilene, one of the other girls perked up,
"Hey Karlyn, I'm really glad you came tonight. And that instead of being all awkward, you just went out there and went for it. I'm so proud of you. And you're quite good at dancing for your first time!"
I laughed so hard, partly because it wasn't her whose toes I had to step on so many times. I assured them that I had a good time. And I did.
And honestly, if I didn't have the mindset of leaving, I would never have given myself the chance to do that.
It makes me wonder what other things in life I miss out on just because I'm too afraid to try, or because I always tell myself that I would get another chance to do that.
And I wonder, can you really regret the chances you never knew you missed out on?
We walk the streets surrounded by strangers, each of us encapsulated within our own bubbles. Every person is on a different adventure. Every person has their own conflict, their own shares of laughter, happiness. Every person has their own story. A story different from yours. And mine.
But we all walk on. Not stopping. Blind to the incredible tales and flood of colorful characters around us.
Until maybe suddenly. We bump. Into a stranger. And for that split second, when the two bubbles collide, when your eyes meet, just for that very moment, you glimpse a little of the stories they could tell.
A father, eyes excited at the prospect of returning home to his family; a mother, eyes warm with days of watching her little ones grow up; a boy, eyes young still believing in black and white, right and wrong, and simple magic; a near-ly woman, eyes tired and rubbed raw living in a world of different shades of gray; a boy turning into a man, eyes bright with the possible futures ahead.
And for that fleeting second, you fall hopelessly and wonderfully into another world that is normally hidden, protected by bubbles made to keep out as much as to keep in. But the moment soon passes. We look away embarrassed for trespassing into places we should not have been. Apologies are pronounced, and then as quickly as possible, we walk on. Bubbles newly formed. Blind once again.
To live with my eyes wide open.
But we all walk on. Not stopping. Blind to the incredible tales and flood of colorful characters around us.
Until maybe suddenly. We bump. Into a stranger. And for that split second, when the two bubbles collide, when your eyes meet, just for that very moment, you glimpse a little of the stories they could tell.
A father, eyes excited at the prospect of returning home to his family; a mother, eyes warm with days of watching her little ones grow up; a boy, eyes young still believing in black and white, right and wrong, and simple magic; a near-ly woman, eyes tired and rubbed raw living in a world of different shades of gray; a boy turning into a man, eyes bright with the possible futures ahead.
And for that fleeting second, you fall hopelessly and wonderfully into another world that is normally hidden, protected by bubbles made to keep out as much as to keep in. But the moment soon passes. We look away embarrassed for trespassing into places we should not have been. Apologies are pronounced, and then as quickly as possible, we walk on. Bubbles newly formed. Blind once again.
To live with my eyes wide open.
01.13.2012 — montréal, québec — by simon hébert
