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

Complete

We run away from the things that hurt us, that scare us, that we don't like. We run away to be protected. Out of the 36 stratagems in Chinese history written by one of the most famous politicians, the best is to get away at once. Okay so I think it's time to talk about bees.
Bees are more likely to sting moving objects. You are supposed to stand still when there is a bee around you. Bees are more likely to sting the person that runs from them. You are supposed to run away from the things that hurt you. But why does running away from this boy that doesn't love me back hurt a hell lot more? Perhaps this should be the real bee talk our parents should do when they refer to "The Birds and the Bees". Last night I started questioning if there's actually any complete protection over self. And I got nothing. You can get hurt by any means. And I guess "run away" doesn't do what I first told you just now anymore.

For the past few days I've been unable to word, or just to communicate. I feel like a piece of fabric put under the running water. There's nothing that I can carry because everything keeps leaking out of these loopholes that make up 80% of my being. Am I nothing or am I too much? I've always been the only one that's standing in my own way.

I met this boy who had a lot of amazing stories to tell, and could mesmerize people in an instant with his adventure tales of his life in the University of Oxford. Out of all the things we talked about, there's this special one about an interesting girl he mentioned that I could never possibly get over. Among the 14 scholars in Oxford (including my friend), there's an 18-year-old girl who can master 18 different languages, and has written a book using her own new language that captures all the valuable advantages of the 18 she knows. There are words in some languages that can never be translated into other languages. In Germany, people use "waldeinsamkeit" to convey the feeling of being alone in the woods. Cualacino is an Italian word for the mark left on a table by a cold glass. There's a word in Inuit that means the feeling of anticipation that leads you to keep checking to see if anyone is coming. Iktsuarpok. It seems like combining all the languages in the world might probably express every corner of human's intricate minds. But here I am, feeling iktsuarpok for someone in mind, frustrated by my inability to look for a word to deliver my ideas. I can't say that I don't love him anymore, but if he needed a light, I would set myself on fire. In the sense of doing that, I figured that nothing has changed. I still do. I still do. And tell me now, what's the word for that?

If you haven’t already known that there are animals that can regenerate their lost or damaged body parts and be immortal, here's a list of them: Lizards, worms, sea cucumbers, spiders, sponges, starfish, crayfish, salamanders, etc. Regeneration takes place because the poor animal wants to keep living. It's like their mechanism against nature; against death. Worms can grow a new head right after you cut it in half. Salamanders can grow a new tail if it is lost. Humans, however, are not able to do this. When we lose our limb, we lose our limb. When we die, we die. And this is the part that I never seem to understand. In Alexa Chung's book "IT", she mentioned about something Marianne Faithfull told her. "Nobody goes through life without having their heart broken and one day you'll wake up and it will be okay." And this is true, because I see people being okay even with a broken heart. A friend once told me that her church mentors said that falling in love means giving the other person an opportunity to crack your heart in half. Falling out of love means that the half cracked part is thrown away. So the more times you love, the smaller your heart is going to be. When humans lose what we lose, we can never replace it. I have lost a huge part of my heart, and the heart is the major part of the human body, and according to the fact I mentioned, it's unlikely to regenerate itself. So how does a person "wake up one day and be okay" when all that I feel is that I'm dying with this quartered-heart? Why can humans survive with a half-dead heart without regeneration?

I'm going to be 19 in about two months, and the only thing I can tell you is that the world is indeed very weird. Water can slip through fingers but it can hold up a ship. There are questions that can never be answered. Deserts should be dry and hot during daytime but it snowed in Egypt. And the people that don't deserve to be loved are the ones that need it the most. Nothing is ever everything because everything is incomplete. There are many loopholes and we're all running water that goes through it. And the biggest loophole of all? You have to let the world be incomplete in order to make it complete.

Before We Break

This is probably the first time I've picked up my pen since having told that I couldn't get into any university. If my younger self was reading this, she'd shake her head no, disbelievingly, "Man, this is so not how it's supposed to be!" And it was exactly what came into my mind a month ago. Instantly I turned into a house full of regrets. Instantly I was the girl back in first grade who lost her balance and stumbled on the trampoline floor. Instantly I couldn't react to the final knockout countdown while lying on the mat of the boxing ring. Everything was true except that I was actually lying on the wrong side of my bed, with the air-con turned on as cold as it would go. Man, this is so not how it's supposed to be.

No it's not. Nothing is ever how it's supposed to be. As I was making space for writing, the chaotic objects on my desk brought me back to before I break.

My desk is a mess. The tarnished handwriting across the edge of the desk of what I thought I deserved, "Please please please let me get what I want this time." I almost forgot how hard I pleaded until my guts hurt. Whoever I thought was listening, might have marked it 'spam', because none of these things that I craved for has happened yet. But by and by I have reached the checkpoint of understanding that sometimes people think they want the biggest strawberry but they really don't.

My desk is a mess. A white shoe box full of my tools for art lessons when I imagined I could grow more kinds of flowers in the garden of the visual arts' field. It turned out the only thing I grew was sorrow, and I was no more than just a little bug in it that couldn't change anything. But then it started raining paper and the caterpillars on my fingertips reminded me that my next draft could be expressed through words, which was also a form of art. That draft was a masterpiece and those caterpillars have become butterflies and some of them are still alive.

My desk is a mess. Next to the box were fragments of an old copy of Teen Vogue that I'd torn up into bits. The self-image issue got across me pretty fast. Somewhere between the shattered mirror pieces on the palms of my hands, I learnt that trying to be the person you're not is wasting the person you are. Besides, nothing can hurt you when you accept yourself completely.

My desk is a mess. Under the postcards from a far side of the planet, something caught my eye – two key chains I bought for a boy I loved so much it made me sorry but still, I wouldn't regret a single day. One for myself and one for him, "Bring it to me when I come back from England, yeah?" but he walked out of my life before I had the chance to. I got him a fucking adorable key chain and the only things he got me were red eyes from last fall. Before I met him, I was this person who's always getting ready to leave when she finally felt at home. He walked through my door and I didn't want to be a nomad anymore, I wanted to go back. But it wasn't really my choice because he was the one who left. Most nights I just wanted to tie him up with a rope so tight that it cut off his circulations and I would auction him off to the promises he was meant to keep. Even until now, hearing his name in someone else's mouth still makes me shy and it makes me feel bad for feeling this way. And I thought the only meaning left of the key chains was that love isn't enough. But now that I have picked myself up from tripping over Cupid's shoelace, everything's crystal clear. No, love isn't enough. But I can be.

My life is a mess. Those mornings when you've awoken with nothing and no one, the nights when you wonder what it feels like to use your premium credit card to get a piece of beef unstuck between your teeth, but fall asleep being convinced that nothing will ever be what it's supposed to be because the things you would die for haven't really occurred even once. Tell yourself that it doesn't matter, because you are pregnant with the fondest memories and they are the "future" that's not supposed to happen but somehow they did, and it's what keeps you from driving your car off a bridge. Before we break, keep in mind that our future is always, always late.

Out of the huge mess I didn't expect would happen, the passion for writing knocked on my door and turned my house of regrets into evergreen – a forest that never goes dry. On the shelf above my messy writing desk, there's a line which I decorated it with two years ago: In all this chaos, we found safety.

A Great Perhaps

A backpack full of all the things I should bring and a head full of all the things I should leave behind, a hand-me-down suitcase stringing along my side like the Golden Retriever dream-dog I'd always wanted when I was little, the pressure on my knees felt lighter than usual out of the blue. There's a pebble in my pocket which I had taken from one of my mother's aloe flowerpots before going to the airport. It'd always been what I liked to do; to take a little piece of home with me whenever I leave, so that I'd never forget to think of this city without remembering all its details.

My plane had taken off before the sun even rose above the horizon. I took out the black pebble I brought. It looked like a piece of coal back in the flowerpot at home, but here - its surface had dulled; its color washed out; it looked smaller. How peculiar it is that when you take what you love from its home, it becomes so much less. This was not a peregrination. This was just a four-day trip to a place about 400 miles from home. But it had been a while since I got away from the city where we fell in love and meant it.

I like travelling. I like how you can go places to look for the landscapes that resemble the world inside your head with no roads and no maps. I like taking all the wrong turns and still think that they're the turns worth taking. I like the idea of having an extra place to contain my overwhelming thoughts in a way that I start to feel so small. I like to build another story on somewhere new, fairy tale or tragedy, there'd always be sunsets and skylines that will keep it, rear it, ripe it. And reap it just to set a fire that is enough to light up the towns. That's what people say, in order to dig a deeper hole, you need to empty what was in it. In order to learn something new, you make spaces for other things to stay. So I turned myself inside out and poured everything away. That was to make sure I wouldn't end up in a common shallow grave.

It was not until the second evening after a talk with my friends that I realized we're all healing. We touched one another's wounds as if our past couldn't hurt us here. We took it out like a weapon. We talked until our words tripped and fell, picked themselves up, and dusted the dirt off their knees. Life has a flavor but it's buried under the soil. Life has a flavor you'll never know until you fall face-down in the dirt. Mint and hazelnut, I can never forget how it tasted. We might be young, but we're old enough to see that we can still be free when we're shattered. It will pour tomorrow but we're not weak today. From broken homes to battle scars to who we are, I've seen the many possibilities of loving people with all the little pieces. That night I thought I fell asleep in the sea, and it wouldn't be any scarier even if I jumped head-first into the water because there was no sadness for me to drown in.

I sent my future self a postcard the next day and attached a runaway smile that was worth the entire following year. If anyone could've saved me, it would've been myself. On the way to the airport, I reached my hand into the pocket and found the pebble I brought. It looked even duller. I threw it into the plants at the entrance and for whenever I come back, it should get smaller. You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens. And when it does, you will have found what you've always been looking for, or something much greater than that. But before this, you might first need to put yesterday behind. I have found a way to live. And it has been in my back-pocket after years of never knowing it was there.

While we were at the top of the world where it seemed like the sun was only seven miles away, I thought of the rusted empty shell I left behind and how much I had changed that I wouldn't ever want to come back home and be the person I used to be. No matter where I am, in Hong Kong or Taiwan, I would be carrying this new shell with me and I will start writing a new chapter that is so unfamiliar that the memories couldn't tip-toe around my mind and try to stir me.

The plane landed and it was getting dark. Coming back to this small city felt like holding hands with all the things I lost. But it didn't hurt a bit because I've taken it down with all the strength I'd been saving up. And this time, I opened my eyes. Someone once said to me, "Never close your eyes when there's something for you to see." And this is what I'm telling you and myself, too. Because right now, my God, you should notice how the city lights are looking at you as if you are something so much more than you could ever call yourself.