I'll See It When I Believe It

If these hands could talk, the right one wouldn't tell you the things it had done to the one that's left. If these hands could talk, they would talk about yesterday. Adrenaline rushed when I realized the cup of tea was a bit too hot for my throat, like the cheap words I was shot at in that same moment. I said I wouldn't think about it tomorrow yesterday. Some people are always aiming at your back waiting for you to take off that bullet-proof vest in front of the world that you're finally ready to brave. Now my burnt tongue can't stop reminding me of the pain in my chest where the bullet went through several times in my life. Is it killing me or is it making me stronger? If I were laying here with you when my heart is breaking and my whole world crumbling down, please look for the right words to say, because hating each other is the only thing we have in common now. Thousands of headlights shine through the city with their ghosts reflected on the white walls that have forgotten about the world because the real bodies who own them aren't here to love them. Next to me are piled-up blankets for warm dreams. I stare at the highways on my palms and can't stop wondering how I lose you every time in the wrinkled open cracks and why I crash and burn in the dead-ends. If this was a ghost story, it would be the only one that I could tell properly over the worst soundtrack of that horrible crack in the voice of someone who's about to cry. I acted like I didn't care when in fact I was so fucking scared because loving you made me forget about hating myself and now I don't know where hating you would lead me to. It was the same fear as when Mrs. Lee passed away holding her husband's hand and the old man living across the street always said that he was glad he wasn't in love with anybody. He said the same when the sirens rang from two blocks away and the ambulance stopped at the entrance of his building. But it wasn't for him. Nothing ever was.

Ghost stories are all lies. There isn't a ghost of us; I won't believe it when I see it, but I know I'll see it when I believe it. That bullet didn't kill me, and it never will. The city lights are trying to tell us the pain in our chests are just our hearts growing bigger, like how the lights spread themselves on the walls connecting those four corners.

If these hands could talk. No, hands can't talk. And there's only the wrong one who had stayed a little longer than it should.

Ironic Miracle

I've been receiving postcards from Chicago, postcards from Leeds, postcards from Brisbane; postcards from all the friends I'm not close with, and I have to read their regards word by word like I'm trying to figure out the secret codes behind these pictures of landmarks from places half way across the world. I've been biting my tongue in my sleep for the past few nights and I had to wake up to a mouthful of blood of my own, to yet another nightmare when I was not asleep. Intuitions like these make it hard for me to not believe in intuitions like knowing that there's really "The One" in our lives that we are telepathically connected to. Because this morning I was told that he's already found someone new now, and suddenly I have so much to say after months of not being able to put a single word on my personal journal. I've also been told that there would be a miracle today and I looked for it everywhere so hard the entire day just to discover there was nothing but a bad weather and that I didn't dare listening to music that might prove it all wrong for something I anticipated. There was a lump in my chest and I had to pretend that it was the lecture notes in my bag that weighed me down to my ankles which made me walk so slowly across the flashing green pedestrian light. I stuffed cookies into my healing mouth hoping it would grow an extra layer of fat around my heart so no one could see it wriggle like a dying caterpillar. But what's the difference when I'm writing things like these as if I'm trying to wear it on my sleeve? I flipped to the first page of my ivory journal book where I found a quote I had written, with my bold handwriting, "How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live." And there's only one item I've crossed out on my bucket list - Fall in love. Postcards from all the friends I'm not close with. I definitely love an irony. And isn't this what I've been doing the whole time? Loving ironies. Walking ironies. Writing articles hoping I could be understood but also trying to hide myself away. And perhaps this is the miracle. This moment could be it. Albert Einstein once said that we could live life as if nothing is a miracle. Or as though everything is a miracle. I remember one morning I woke up next to him when the first rays filtered through the horizontal blinds and the shadows landed along the contour of his face, and I couldn't help kissing the lines like how people long to touch the paintings hanging in the museums. But I'd pretend that I didn't know him ten years from now if we crossed paths on each side of the yellow lines on the ground while green lights were flashing and my heart pumping to its beats. Because I know my heavy ankles wouldn't be able to bring me to the other side before it turned red. I wouldn't race through it. I'd just pretend that I didn't know him. All this time I've been looking for a left sneaker. He's a left sneaker. And then I look at myself and I get it now, I get it. I'm also a left sneaker. Maybe that explains why we're so similar and yet so incompatible in every way. And maybe the cliches are right. Maybe there really are some things that we have to find before we find each other.

The Backseat of the Car

That night when you brought me home for the first time I told you I felt the safest when I was in the front seat of the car that's going full speed ahead because then I would know where it was heading. I might be the slowest revolutionary but I know I no longer take pride in loving boys who use matches instead of lighters now. Three years of running after things that try again made me forget how to count the miles, but I know the exact distance of it dragging me by my hair. I know all the ways to disappoint you and this is what I've been doing. I sit myself in the back of the car and lean my head against the window with my eyes shut so I don't have to know where it's going. And all that I can hear is the car's engine howling like the thunder and thunder has never sounded so in control. But doing things like this only stings my face like the mistral in November and makes you not wanting to call me again. I have a picture of your apartment in England and it makes me picture you lying on your bed looking out the window after the rain when it's turning dark. I would love to wonder if you'd think about me when I don't think about you, but we all moved on when October ended and I have already met someone new several times. I used to think I would still care about you deep down in my heart no matter how long it had been but I was wrong. Sometimes when you wake up from a dream and you start thinking about it, you will discover all the things that don't really make sense. Maybe that's because there are loopholes in our subconsciousness and maybe I don't really care about you at all. Seeing him isn't another way I discovered to disappoint you, that's why I keep it low like how people hide their socks with holes in them. He's two years older and he's not the type of person who tries again. Everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it but the things he let go of were intact in every single way as if he didn't want to leave any traces or memories behind. And I had to bite my tongue whenever I saw him so I wouldn't say what I shouldn't say. Maybe the idea of love is great; it's just its capacity that I don't trust. He looks like art and he has a flammable heart that leaves me questioning - ignitable wild thing, can you cry? Can you laugh? Have you loved? And maybe being with somebody so dangerous is the last time I felt safe. I love his mischievous grin and all the trouble he brings. I love how much I don't know about him and yet I feel like I've known him in another life. I love how scary this sounds and I love that he doesn't remind me of you even a bit. I love how he tells stories through rhymes and how reading his lyrics was way much easier than reading his eyes. And I love how I wished he was sober when he wrote that and how I wish I'm drunk while I'm writing this.

Puzzle

Re-reading the things I wrote when I was sixteen-seventeen brings me back to that place between places again. Up til now I still can't believe it has been two years since my life has changed so much that the wish I wanted to take back has completely taken its toll. There are a lot of lines in my poems that now I feel sorry for; the moving on but still loving theme - it was merely my survival mechanism as a child. We all have that little trick that we rely on to protect ourselves from what we always question for leaving. But some tricks are only useful for a while until it becomes a habit that kills you as you grow older. Whenever I start writing, I can't stop my fingers from sleep-walking to pick at my own scabs to see if there's still a story underneath. Bad habits always disguise themselves as good ones when you first pick them up.

I used to know a boy who collected bits and bits of broken hearts and stuck them onto his bedroom wall like a detective's evidence board. I suppose this is what I learnt from him; I suppose this is why the tiny pieces of metaphor in my poems constantly jump from one imagery to another. I wasn't sure what sort of traces he was looking for, and what crime he was trying to solve, but I held on tight to him anyway because I thought he could save me. Of course, in the end he couldn't. I'm the only one who can save myself. In the end I had to walk away from him and my sixteen-seventeen writings with my weak ankles because he said he didn't want to figure me out anymore. He made me watch him tear everything down from his wall. And after that I told him I was sorry. I would be easy to solve if I weren't missing pieces.

After The Struggle

The sky isn't always blue like how preschoolers always paint it. At least it isn't in here - I opened my eyes and breathed steadily. The water covered my ears vertically as I was floating on the purplish lake reflecting the night sky. All the sounds were muffled. The owls. The ripples. My irregular heartbeat. With my face looking out upon the glowing ceiling of heaven, there were dragonflies penetrating through the woods here and there. They have come here to die. To be exact, they came here to lay eggs, but a few weeks after that, they would come back to the same place and die.

Standing back up with my feet on the bottom of the lake, the water leveled with my collarbones. A bike was sitting on the bank, leaning against an oak. I didn't remember getting off this bike I'd been riding. I couldn't remember stopping. I can't. Stop.

I didn't come here to die. I came here to put words up as architecture so I could ride over it.

What if the dragonflies were humans? I think about this all the time. They would have their children start going to school meeting other dragonflies and learn about smoking cigarettes and lean on the fence I built with my bare hands to blow rings out for girls to poke at. If the dragonflies were humans, they wouldn't come here to die.

When I was small, I used to cry so hard that I laughed. Now that I'm older, I often laugh so hard that I start crying. There must be some kind of reasons for that, but it doesn't really matter anymore. I'm not going to figure out why and I'm just going to let unfinished business and unsolved mysteries be unfinished and unsolved. And I'm scared. I'm not going to lie anymore. I am scared. You can't forever pretend that nothing scares you. I'm scared because this world is too intricate. I'm scared because I'm the girl that would ask you which way left was when we slow danced.

I walked towards the bank and grabbed the towel laying beside the bike. The withered leaves on the ground reminded me that late Autumn was ending soon. I dried my hair and the rest of my body, then covered myself with the towel like a new-born baby. I pressed on the bruise on my knee to check if it still hurt. These violet clouds had been so stubborn that they wouldn't fade away from my kneecap. I was taught that we had to accept falls as a part of every process because each one would hit harder than the last. Fall a few times on a bike and you'll learn how to keep your balance. Fall a few times and you'll learn. Fall a few times, no matter from what or for who.

Places like this is just another draft in my head, but it's all that I have now. Late Autumn is ending soon. This, too, is ending soon. When we know something that's beyond our control is ending, we should enjoy it till the end.

After the struggle, after every struggle, I keep on riding as the season changes, as the lakes I see are not the same as the one I swam in. And as everything changes, I tell myself that I'm changing too, when in fact it's always been the same. After this struggle, after every struggle we've never really changed. The swallows are flying back from the South. It's always the same.

The sky seemed a bit purplish tonight. I opened my eyes and breathed steadily.

Stories of Survival

My sister tried to kill herself last night.

A while ago my friends paid a visit to my flat. They sat on the sofa and looked over to the mountain view right outside our balcony. One of them exclaimed to me how wonderful it was to live right opposite the vastness of green when most of the people in modern life were trying to just get away from their regular 9 to 5 routine for just a few minutes. I said to him, "If you stand further away from the balcony window, the mountain will seem bigger, like you can brush against the seemingly spurious scenery painting within the reach of your hand. It is as if you could just jump out of the window frames and touch the birds near the upper rim of the artwork as you free-fall and land on the greenish mattress."

It was the same balcony my sister had tried to jump out of, only wishing to land on the Monday midnight concrete twenty-nine storeys below. It was the same night a nightingale's lament woke me from my sound sleep. As exhausted as I could ever be, my dreams pulled me back into heavy snoring again. The next morning my alarm went off and when I got out of bed, there was the black-and-blue little bird curling up in the lower bunk beneath the bed sheets, flightless, weeping. She said she wanted to do it, but she couldn't.

My sister tried to kill herself last night.

If the best storytellers were those who're the most honest, I would be the worst one to ever tell you that I had never contemplated what my sister contemplated.

Our neighbor, we used to call her Charlie, had three dogs when her family still lived next to mine. They moved two years later to a place about an hour bus ride away. By the time I called her up to meet again, she already had six dogs in total. Her family was the breeders, so they didn't bring it to the vet when it was in labor. Charlie told me it was at night the dog was having dystocia when it was giving birth to its last pup. With blood on the tiles, it delivered, survived, and Charlie's mother cried till the morning.

My sister tried to kill herself last night.

When I was in third or fourth grade, my grandmother came home with a yellow canary in a cage. It was chirping in the playground downstairs, she said. It was chirping while other swallows kept quiet. It didn't try to escape when my grandma approached. So she kept it ever since. She fed it and took care if it. The bird was all my grandma would talk about to all her friends. Old men would bring their birds to the parks and hang out with other old men. It wasn't something an old lady would do, so every once in a while we would bring the tiny music player with us to family field trips. I have to admit that those were one of the best days of my life. The canary always attracted children to come near and listen to its cool chirps. My grandma was proud of it. In fact we all were. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It was hope and joy and laughter. Then one day when my gran tried to clean the cage, it flew away. Those were the bad days in my childhood because I could tell that everyone at home was a bit bothered by the news. The cage was kept open on gran's balcony for quite a few days. One morning she was woken to a unique chirp. A yellow little angel was standing on the balcony. It came back. Eventually the bird grew old and died. But it was something I could never forget because this little creature was freedom looking for haven. It was a vagrant longing for home.

My sister tried to kill herself last night.

The next morning she was sitting on the yellow marble bathroom floor, both her wrists covered with self-loathing from the night before, she begged me to let her go, with her face behind her palms. She said in an almost inaudible husky voice, "I'm not meant for this, I don't belong here." I told her about love and loss and fear, but she cleared her throat and said to me firmly, "I don't want anything anymore." I stood up and turned away as I tried to look at her reflection in the mirror. But all I saw was my own reflection now and I saw myself sitting on the bathroom floor with hands over my face two years ago. And I get it now. I finally get it. To always pick the harder road but not the one that is the easiest. I understand now. To always fight and never quit. To struggle and finally see. To get lost and keep finding your way back. Mind over matter. Life over death.

My sister tried to kill herself last night, and I know I've said it a million times now. But the birds don't just die over the Winter and when I say, life is beautiful and worth living for, my words - these words - do not come out as an apology.

The Unimaginable

"What's your New Year's Resolution?"
"1080p haha swaggg," I joked as I was still thinking of how to answer this kind of questions for years. "Yours?" I asked her back as a sign of good manners.
"To be happy for the rest of my life." That's what she said a year ago. So did she two years ago. And three years ago...

I suppose this is the "ultimate answer" to any other questions like "What did you wish for on your birthday?" or "What do you want to be when you grow up?" And isn't this what we all want? To be happy even when you fuck up your life or even when life fucks you up. But let's be honest - nobody wants to fuck up his/her life or be fucked up by life. So what they really meant was: I wish life wouldn't suck and would turn out the way I wanted it to.

There has been a number of people that kept telling me their "great discovery": They have realized that their wishlists get shorter and shorter every year because the things they want have become much more difficult to obtain.
We think we want less as the list gets shorter, but in fact we've become greedier little bastards, because we've been taught that the only thing that contains everything we want is happiness - Happiness is family reunion. Happiness is getting offers from your favorite universities. Happiness is being popular. It's good music. It's a dream car. It's the good time spent with your partner. It's wealth, etc. And as a teenager, I'd have to agree, because we always think we have everything figured out. We would say what we always say when the more experienced generation tries to lecture us, "No, mom, no, dad, you don't understand. Don't tell me how to live my life." If I had a daughter, I would reply her with, "Honey, you want family reunion, you want offers from your favorite universities, you want popularity, good music, a dream car, the good time spent with your boyfriend, you want wealth... You don't want happiness." Because that was what my father told me, too.

Most of the time, we've cheated ourselves to believe that getting all of these means being happy, and we've forgotten the true meaning of happiness.

A while ago, my sister and I were taking a stroll along the pier near my neighborhood. She told me that there were some relationship matters that were bothering her and holding her down. She was scared that she couldn't be with the one she loved when she came to the late years of her life. At that point she was having trouble with her boyfriend. And after listening to her concerns, I was confused. Most of our sufferings come from the anxiety we impose on ourselves. It means that we always set limitations or goals for ourselves to meet, and then worry about if we will meet them someday. And the minor failures we encounter always bat us down and constantly make us reconsider if we've set the right goals for ourselves. I remember a friend once said to me, "何必只看眼前說一生" In English, it means, "Why do we have to define life just by looking at what's happening right before our eyes?" And in many ways, it's true. We always live life in fast forward, too busy to rush through everything, so we can get on what we're really supposed to be doing with our lives. Nobody ever stops and enjoys the moment, and one day we'll end up in the ground and realize, this is it. This is our life. And that will be it. We'll be gone.

I am sitting in the corner of Starbucks, listening to the playlist I made myself, drinking a grande vanilla latte, putting my thoughts into words. I might not be scoring a 4.3 GPA in the coming semester; I might not be spending time with the boy I love the most now; I might not get a sound sleep tonight, but I am happy. I am happy because I have this moment. So to my sister's anxious mood that night, I told her that maybe we should never look at life as a big picture. Look at the woman walking her dog there, I said, look at the old men dancing with beers in their hands in that bar across the street. Look at now. Life doesn't start there. Life doesn't start when you finally have everything. Life starts here. Life is made of small moments like these. Failures are just a constant factor that reminds us of reality just in case our heads are in the clouds. Our generation is so wounded because they need everything in order to be happy. If happiness was everything, then it must be hella hard for you to be happy. Teenagers think they are smart, but they only have the quick-wit to imagine life as the things they have seen or heard of. We often forget that the best feeling is the weightless float on our way back up after hitting rock bottom.

American poet Mary Oliver said, "Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable." This always reminds me that in fact there's so much more to this life than we can possibly see or touch or understand. The unimaginable is exactly what makes everything easier. Sometimes the peace of mind comes from the surrender to reality's mystery.

So what's my New Year's Resolution?
Let's just live in the moment and whatever happens will happen.

If Life Was A Trip

In a faraway land about three decades ago, a rich man, Senior Reeders, owned most of the lands in the country. He was 65 when he decided to hand most of the properties to his only son, Young. The old man called his son over to his splendid room decorated with gold and eaglewood. Senior Reeders was born in a poor family, but his astonishing perseverance and dedicated hard work outstood his performance at a large corporation, so he became one of the best employees in the company. When he was only 43, Senior started his own mining and transportation business and flourished his company's name in 10 years' time. Young walked into the room with humility, ready to do what his father told him to. This was one of the good things that Young possessed; he was never too arrogant about the high social status his family held. But the 26-year-old was always too impersonal; Young never held his own opinion about life. Perhaps it's because of his wealth; Young didn't have to worry about his future at all. "My son," from his deathbed, Senior reached out his hand, speaking in a small voice. "Yes, father," Young took hold of the old man's wrinkled hand, "what can I do for you?" Senior squeezed his son's hand tightly, trembling. Young had almost forgotten how strong his father used to be, when he played with Young in his early years, flinging him up high with his forceful arms. "Before you inherit my properties, I want you to go on a one-week trip to Morocco. I hired three men to accompany you. Make good use of the time you spent there."

And that's how the trip began. The three men Young's father hired introduced themselves to him, "Hi Young, you can call me Jay. Or J for short." Another man with a large backpack held out his hand and grinned, "Just call me Q." Young shook Q's hand and turned to the last man with dreadlocks in his hair. "I'm Addy. Not Eddy. Addy with an A," he smiled. So Young, Jay, Q and Addy set off as a team to Morocco.

When Young's private jet dropped them off at the border of Morocco, Q took out a map and a compass from his enormous backpack. "We should draw the routes and estimate each of their duration. I suggest we follow the third route I drew while you were all sleeping on the plane; it's the only route that travels the most significant spots of Morocco and can bring us back within 1 week!" said Q. Young took a peek at Q's map and nodded. Jay put down his bags and took out a Polaroid camera, "So we've decided on our routes, now we can start our trip," Jay smiled and took a picture of the landscape. The four tourists moved on to their first spot.

They came to a Roman City called Volubilis where the famous Volubilis Ruins were located. Jay captured the beautiful wonder with his camera and curiously read the brief introduction of each of the remaining parts of the monument. Addy left the group and went near the bushes where the cliff was a few feet away. "AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" Addy screamed into the vastness and waited for the echoes to travel back, "WE'RE AT THE END OF THE WORLDDDDDDDD WE'RE FREEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!" Young called from a distance, "Hey Addy, what are you doing, it's dangerous there," Addy came back excitedly, announcing the interesting scenery he'd seen from the perspective on the edge of the cliff, "I can't believe they don't build anything down there; the land is huge!" Q took out his map again and informed the others, "Yea, Addy, who cares about what they do with the lands here. Let's move on to our next spot before our deadline."

Two days were all it took to arrive at Midelt. It was a land full of rich resources such as lead, gypsum and other minerals. Young's father had a proposal of building transportation along the area. "That's the town, and that's the plains," Q pointed at different directions, according to the map he'd been burying his nose in. "The snow on the mountain tops seems like it has a hard time trying to blend in with the desert down there!" Jay took out his sketch book and started drawing lines. Q suggested they find a place to stay for the night, "I think they have hotels in town." The four young men made their way to the town where they found it difficult to express their needs to the locals due to communication barrier. Fortunately, they managed to find a decent accommodation. "We should put down the heavy bags and go explore this exotic land," Addy said as he was putting on his coat. "Better stay here until next morning in case of any accidents… What if we got kidnapped or robbed," Q yawned and laid back on his bed. "I'll go with Addy. You coming?" Jay asked Young. Young looked at Q, then at Jay and shrugged, "Why not?" The three men enjoyed their night in the Midelt town and learnt a lot about their culture. Jay took a dozen pictures with the people he met and also the bizzare food he probably would never get to try again. They went back to the hotel and found Q sleeping soundly already. "Waahoo! What a night!" Addy exclaimed.

On the fourth day, the four very different men came to one of the most magnificent cities in Morocco - Essaouira. The climate was mild and the weather was breezy. "Look! There are people surfing!" Young pointed at the beach on their left. Jay took out his camera immediately and captured the view. "It's so different from other places of Morocco," Jay said. "I think they were ruled by different countries throughout the years or something," Q flipped through his tourist-guide book. Essaouira had white-washed buildings and bright blue shutters, resembling the construction styles of Pin Mykonos Harbor Cyclades in the Aegean Sea. They settled down at a beautiful hotel room whose balcony descried the entire landscape of Essaouira. "With a nice weather like that, I just want to take a nap," Q said while he was unpacking. "I'm tired too," Young stretched. Jay made himself a cup of tea and went over to the balcony where he started drawing, taking pictures and writing his travel journal. The artistic young man was completely mesmerized in the scenery that he didn't want to be disturbed by anything less important than that. While everyone was doing his own thing, Addy left a note on the teapoy. After that, he brought along his belongings and left the hotel room.

When Jay finished his art and when Young and Q woke up, they looked for Addy everywhere. At dawn, they went back to the hotel room and patiently waited for the police department's news. "Hey look, Addy left a note," Young picked up the tiny piece of paper that said, "Don't come looking for me, I shall stay here a bit longer. Go on to your next spot! Don't worry about my safety, I do this a lot." It ended with a smiley face that Addy drew. So the three of them spent the rest of their day relieved. Apart from the food in Essaouira, the souvenirs and handmade crafts also had their undeniable charm. Jay was captivated by the detailed sewing patterns of the carpets and couldn't resist buying the expensive decoration for his apartment back in his home country. "I kind of miss Addy," Young sighed, "We've never had dinner without him and his amazing life stories." Q nodded and added, "Nothing personal, I miss him too, but a man like him could really mess up our trip," Q continued, "What do you think your father meant to send us away for? Definitely not to get lost." Jay looked up from the meal he was eating and said, "Whatever purpose he has, while we're here, we should enjoy the trip and learn about the cultures of Moroccans." Young nodded slowly as if he agreed with both of his friends.

The next day, these three men came to their last travelling spot, Rabat. It was a developing city and it was the capital of Morocco. Rabat means "fortified place". In 1146, the Almohad ruler Abd al-Mu'min turned Rabat's ribat into a full scale fortress to use as a launching point for attacks on Iberia. Q made a phone call at the station to confirm their hotel check-in. "Uh-oh we got a problem," Q turned to Young and Jay after hanging up, "One of the airlines was delayed, so some of the tourists have to stay at the hotel for a longer while, and now the rooms are all full…" Young and Jay looked surprised, "So you mean we have nowhere to stay?" Young asked nervously. Jay told Young to contact his family and see if his mother could help them out, but he couldn't get in touch with his family. Just as they were panicking, Addy showed up. "HEY I FOUND YOU," he gave each of them a big hug. "What happened to your elbow?" Asked Jay. "I rode a camel and fell off. Didn't break my bones, no big deal," explained Addy, "what are you doing here?" Young told him the situation they were facing. Addy had an idea, "While I was travelling Essaouira alone, I met this event planner. He said he was going to Rabat in a few days because there was a big event to plan for at the Palais Royal Dar al Makhzen… Maybe we can…" "No way…" Jay interrupted. Young smirked, "Addy, let's do that."

So that was how the four young men pretended to be the Moroccan Royal Family's event planner recklessly. They managed to fool the simple-hearted officials that they came a bit early and earned a chance to stay at the majestic palace in Rabat. Incredibly, the amiable nobles even dined with the four and treated them like special guests. They had a great time talking and enjoying the entertainments provided - music and plays and magic performances. After supper, everyone was tired. Q sat aside and took out his planning book, writing a timetable for their remaining days in Morocco. Addy made a lot of friends in the palace because he learnt some basic Arabic dialogues during his one-man trip. Jay impressed the royals with the pictures he took and the pictures he drew along the way. Young had fun listening to the history of development of Morocco told by the greatest person he has ever met.

In the morning, Young, Jay, Addy and Q tried to think of a way to leave the palace. "Let's just be honest with them," Young said. One of the nobles came and asked them if they'd had a sound sleep the previous night. Without hesitation, Young bursted out, "We're not event planners." The other three looked at him in shock. The noble smiled and nodded, "Yes, young man, we figured out before dinner last night. We happened to find out about your background too, so we decided to let you stay." Young laughed with relief and embarrassment. The noble continued, "Your father is a great man. We all heard about his achievements."

At noon, Jay, Q and Young packed their bags and were ready to say farewell to this amazing place. "Addy, why haven't you packed?" Young asked with confusion. Addy told them that in fact the King was looking for an English teacher for his elder son. So he made Addy stay and be the tutor for a period of time. "I'll be fine here. Go on without me," Addy reassured his three friends. They said their goodbyes unwillingly. "Be careful or else it wouldn't be just a small injury in your elbow!" Jay reminded Addy. To which Addy replied, "It's all worth it, pal, it's all worth it." Q dried his eyes and adjusted his voice, "Ahem, we should go back now. Young, your father is waiting."

Three buddies went back to their home country after the one-week trip. Unfortunately, Young's father, Senior Reeders passed away before they returned. "Sorry for your loss," Q patted Young's shoulder, "at least we came back in a week and finished what your father told you to do." Young returned Q's console with a pat on his shoulder. Jay turned to Young and said, "Sorry for your loss, pal," he continued, "at least we got to see the beautiful things in another country and learned a lot about another culture. Your old man would be proud of you."

After attending his father's funeral, Young's mother told him that his father had left him a short letter. He took hold of the envelop his mother handed him. "To Young Reeders" - his father's handwriting.

Young opened it and read it without skipping a single word:

Dear Young Reeders,

I hope you have learnt a lot from your trip and from the three people I sent as your companions. Before inheriting all of my properties, I would like to let you see that there are three different ways to live your life.

These three people are very special, and I had not introduced them to you in a proper manner before your trip. It was their nicknames you've been calling, and their real names are actually "Quest", "Journey" and "Adventure". As you can see, my son, Quest sees the trip as a task to accomplish. Living your life as a quest will definitely bring you to your destination. Journey, on the other hand, values the trip more than the destination. He is the kind of person that can see the subtle beauty of everyday life. Adventure, who is very different from the other two men, went on a trip without a destination. He is the person that takes the biggest risks. You may get hurt in an adventure, son, but the things you discover are always far more interesting than in any other trips.

Dear Young Reeders, please take a minute and think for yourself - How would you want to live your life?

Love,
Your Father