A Dream within a Dream

By Edward Allan Poe

Plenty of Fish

INT. CAFETERIA - DAY

Jake enters the cafeteria. Ryan, his friend, is sitting alone. His notes, laptop, and lunch are simultaneously sprawled across the table. Ryan is typing away.

Jake: (spotting Ryan) Hey.

Ryan: Dude! What the hell, man. Why weren't you at class?

Jake: Um, I just woke up.

Ryan: (glances his watch) It's one. PM. Wednesday.

Jake: Uh, yea. Sorry.

Ryan: Whatevs. (discontent) If you hurry they might still have a sub or a slice right now. Unless you want the soup. Nobody wants that shit though.

Jake: I'm good.

Ryan: You probably need the notes, right? Hold on. I gotta finish this.

Jake: Actually (cuts himself off).

Ryan resumes typing. Jake sits himself, pulls out his water and takes a sip. A minute or two passes. Ryan stops, lowers his laptop screen, grabs his half-eaten lunch and begins munching.

Ryan: Long night?

Jake: She broke up with me.

Ryan: (stops chewing) When?

Jake: Last night.

Ryan: I'm sorry, man.

Jake: Yea.

Ryan: You okay?

Jake: Uh huh, I think so.

Ryan: Why did she break up with you?

Jake: I don't know.

Ryan: She didn't say?

Jake: Well, she said I was the right guy but at the wrong time.

Ryan: What the fuck does that mean?

Jake: I don't know.

Ryan: (chewing again) That's messed up.

Jake: Yea, maybe.

A moment admits.

Ryan: Cheer up dude, there's plenty of fish in the sea.

Jake: Uh, what? No. I don't want another fish.

Ryan: It's a big sea. You never know.

Jake: No, don't give me that bullshit. That's not how it works, and you know it. If your copy of 'Halo' broke and I told you, "It's OK, there are other games in the sea. Here, play 'COD' instead." What would you say? You'd be like, "Fuck that, give me my 'Halo'." There is no other fish.

Ryan is speechless.

Ryan: (murmurs) Wow.

Jake: That's what I thought.

Ryan: That is some next-level, I don't even know what to call it.

Jake: (sighes; pausing) Yea. I wouldn't mind playing 'Mass Effect' though. I read some good reviews.

Ryan: Wait, is the analogy still on? Because, you know, who's 'Mass Effect'?

Jake: Shut up. You know what I mean.

Note: This post was inspired by a 9gag entry I saw a while back.

I Love You (Son)

INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE NATHAN'S ROOM -- THANKSGIVING WEEKEND

Nathan's mother stands outside Nathan's door. She is tall and slim. Her hair shows hint of graying, and her hands show wear. She holds out her knuckle, hesitates, then knocks.

Nathan: Yea, come in.

She gently opens the door, stands by the door, and speaks. Nathan swivels his chair to face her.

Mother: Dinner's ready. I made your favorite, lasagna.

Nathan: Oh okay, thanks.

Mother turns to leave.

Nathan: Is dad still mad?

Mother: (turning back) The insurance is going to cover it. Don't worry about it.

Nathan: Really? Even the engine?

Mother: Yes.

Nathan: That's good. (beat) But dad's still mad.

Mother: You know how he gets. Give him time.

Nathan: Yea.

Mother: You're safe. That's all it matters.

Nathan doesn't respond.

Mother: (concerned) How come you're not going out with Chris this Thanksgiving?

Nathan: Oh, I told him I'm too busy.

Mother: But, you guys go out every year. Did something happen?

Nathan: No, I'm just busy. And tired. You know, I graduate next term and I have to figure things out.

Mother: Figure things out?

Nathan: My next move.

Mother: Oh.

Nathan: I applied to a bunch of jobs last month, in the West, but didn't get any of them.

Mother: How come you never told us?

Nathan: It's not a big deal. I'll tell you about it later.

Mother: No, no. Tell me now. I want to hear.

She walks in and sits on his bed, now an arm's reach from Nathan.

Nathan: (sighs) Y'know, next summer I'll be out of college, and I kept thinking what should I do, what should I do? And I talked to Chris, and he said he's applying for jobs at Silicon Valley. And I thought it'd be cool if we could live in the same city again. And it's California and all. So I did. To about fifteen places. But, yea.

Mother: Well, there's no rush.

Nathan: Mom, it's only six months away!

Mother: You know, your father and I are completely fine with you staying here while you sort it out.

Nathan: Yea, but I don't want to do that.

Mother: It's your home and you're always welcome.

Nathan: (distressed) It's just weird. I've always been away. I mean my stuff's here, but other than that - and plus, I have nothing to do here.

There is a long silence.

Mother: Nathan, do you feel like you're at home when you're here?

Nathan: What do you mean?

Mother: I remember that time when you came back from the high-school band trip. Where did you guys go again?

Nathan: Which year?

Mother: Your senior year.

Nathan: Um, Phoenix.

Mother: My goodness, no wonder it was so expensive!

Nathan: (chuckles) Yea, it was like Philadelphia, Rochester, Pittsburgh, then Phoenix.

Mother: Well, you came back from that trip on Friday and you stayed in all weekend. And you said you were sick and asked me if you could stay in Monday too. I knew you weren't sick so I told you to go to school. But I understood you just missed home, and being on the road with people wasn't your thing. You missed being comfortable, getting rest, or just being home.

Nathan falls silent, reminiscing.

Mother: Do you feel like that when you're here?

Nathan looks up slowly and shakes his head.

Mother: (smiling) We need to find you a girl.

Nathan: (surprised) What?

Mother: Get you married.

Nathan: (more surprised) What?!

Mother: Everyone needs a home.

Nathan: Mom, I'm twenty-two!

Mother: (continuing) Someone who trusts you and loves you.

Nathan: Mom, are you even listening? I'm twenty-two!

Mother: Your father and I dated for two years, and he was twenty-five when he got married.

Nathan: But, you guys are from the Stonehenge!

She lets out a laugh.

Nathan: Mom, that stuff is way down the road.

Mother: Well, you have always been more mature than your age.

Nathan: And plus, the person should always come before the marriage. It doesn't make sense that - oh, I want to get married so I should go find someone. It's not like a goal.

Mother: (smiling) See?

Nathan: Seriously, mom. That is not even in my view sight right now.

Mother: Maybe.

There's a brief pause. Then, she stands up, draws closer to Nathan, and kisses Nathan on the forehead.

Mother: I love you.

Nathan: I love you, too.

Mother: (leaving) Come down for dinner.

(Painting by Mark Rothko "Orange and yellow" 1956)

Yellow Boat (Goodbye, Pt. 2 of 2)

Continued from Yellow Boat (Goodbye, Pt. 1 of 2)

She spoke so graciously, thankful for the memories. Not bitter, angry, or betrayed. I found her poise remarkable. I sensed what the memories and Josh had meant for her. But, despite the pain she spoke truthfully and with endearment. However, I had begun to get frustrated. I could not understand Josh's actions. 'How could he have just left her like that? Without a word! She thought of him as her best friend, and he was the world to her,' I thought. 'Where is he now? Did he forget? Did he die? If he weren't dead, the least he could do was say bye,' my thoughts lingered.

Unsettled, I bursted. "Aren't you sad?"

She was a little taken back. She answered, "Of course I am, Luke."

"Aren't you angry?" I expounded.

Emily frowned at me. I had stirred an unchartered emotion in her. I immediately regretted having darted Emily such reckless questions. But, she collected herself and spoke, softly, "I was, Luke. When Josh didn't come back on the fourth summer, I waited and waited desperately. I was worried, tired, and angry. But, not now."

A bit apologetic, I took a moment to approach. "Why not?" I asked her.

"Because I cherish the friendship we had. He had shown me so much. Yes, I was angry and I felt betrayed, thinking that he had forgotten me. At the same time, I was worried sick if he were okay. But, as time grew, I also realised something. Friendship is a blessing, Luke. And you cannot own blessings or make them your own," said Emily. She seemed at peace.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I loved Josh, and he was my best friend. But, such things as friendship and love are blessings given to you. They are not earned, and they cannot be ransomed. And to have been given an opportunity to experience true friendship, and true love, is a gift in itself. Yes, I've lost Josh, but to have had a friend like Josh and lose him is better than not having had a friend at all," she replied.

It was then. I was moved. I felt my anguish shell crack and give way to chasm of unrelenting memories. I sat there, sobbing. My tears streamed down my cheeks, and I could feel them wash my hands as I pressed onto my face. Drops brushing against my fingers and my palms, and the warmth of the Sun on my back, I sat there crying. I had lost a friend earlier that year in an accident, and I felt the surge of emotions spring up. I found myself lost, again.

When I calmed down, Emily finally spoke. She asked, "Are you okay?"

"I don't know what to do," I cried.

"What's wrong?" asked Emily.

"I don't know what to do," I repeated, "I know it's not my fault she died." I wasn't making much sense.

Before I could continue, she interrupted, "Who died, Luke?"

"My friend, Ellie," I said. Ellie was my friend, and I had known her since I was a kid. She was my best friend. As I told Emily the story of how Ellie died, I couldn't stop sobbing. "It was six months ago. She was just walking home from school, and I know it was a red light and she shouldn't have crossed, but the driver must have not seen her or something. That fucking driver."

Emily listened.

"I know she didn't mean to die. And, she didn't leave me. It just happened. I just don't know what to do. I feel so jaded, angry, and alone. But, then I think I'm being selfish only thinking about my feelings. But, I can't stop. I know she's not the blame. That fucking driver."

More tears came out. It took me a while to calm down, much longer than I had ever imagined. I had never cried much. I felt like a fool who couldn't manage himself. When it was all over, Emily spoke again, "I'm really sorry, Luke." She was deeply empathetic. She understood.

When I've calmed down and came to my senses, I was embarrassed. "This is embarrassing," I regressed.

"No, it's not," she replied.

"I guess I really needed to vent, huh." I shied away.

"It's good," she said, "I think you ought to share. Have you shared how you feel? With friends?"

Unfortunately, I didn't have friends who wanted to talk and my parents had thought I had 'problem moving on' when I had continued to be solemn months after months. "I tried," I replied.

She remained silent. Naturally, I thought she'd console me then. Having understood my pains, I believed she would help. But, she didn't. Instead, she surprised me. "Luke, this might sound strage to you," she said, "but pray your tears."

"Pray?" I asked. That did sound strange.

"Yes, pray," she confirmed.

It might have sounded lesser strange the second time, but I didn't understand. "Pray? As in pray to God?" I asked, "I don't believe in God."

Emily gave a slight smile. Then, she said, "Prayer is just a petition your heart makes, Luke." She continued, "Petition brings pain of its own, because it's a struggle. That is unfortunately so. But when you have declared your pleas, confessions, and pains, you'll find peace. You'll see that prayers help you grow. You'll find strength. And peace is a kind of inner strength."

"What.." I stumbled. My thoughts were in disarray. Nevertheless, I reacted. "But, who do I pray to?" I asked.

"Be honest, and someone will always listen," she affirmed. "Don't hold them in or try to vent. Sometimes, it doesn't make any sense but just be honest, and you'll always have someone who will listen." She paused, then continued, "Fortunately, Luke, I believe in a God who will listen even if you don't believe him, or even if everyone turned back on him and nobody believed him."

I sat there, struck by her words. I was confused, but part of me believed her. I had always tried to push my emotions and pains aside. I had always tried to ignore or rid them. I had never taken time to confront them and be honest to myself. A picture entered my mind. There was a pair of hands, bleeding, as it picked up broken shards of glass. There were piles of them, but the hands would continue to pick them and continue to bleed. I thought how utterly stupid it was to pick up pieces of glass by hand, but I understood. I wished those were my hands. And I sat there, thinking. My heart resonated.

In silence, time passed. I looked up. The sun had moved well past its meridian, and I could see it glaring behind shields of clouds. It must have been around three or four o'clock, I guessed.

Eventually, Emily spoke. "You're quiet, aren't you?" she asked.

"I am," I replied with a slow nod.

"But not shy," she added.

"No," I answered.

"Josh was quiet, too. He had a nickname at school. They called him the Lone Wolf," she said, "I didn't like it, because I didn't think it suited him. Plus, I don't like wolves. But, he took it as a compliment. He said lone wolves tend to be older and wiser."

I don't know why that was funny, but I was a little amused. I let out a chuckle. And, Emily smiled.

We continued to talk for hours. She told me more stories of Josh, and I shared my stories of Ellie as well. We found a commonplace in each others' hearts and rested there. Time flew. And soon, the moon began rising at opposite end. Air chilled and its scent became fresher. The blue skyline darkened into a dark indigo. I saw the stars envelope the atmosphere, and I dreaded the thought of heading back to the deck. Eventually, I did. I said goodbye to Emily, to which she simply said, "See you later." I rowed back with dim light from the light stand by the deck as my only guide. My heart still heavy, I felt uneasy. I felt perplexed and my thoughts continued to wander. But, I sensed hope. Without knowing how or where, my heart had already begun its course. I didn't know where I was, or where I was going, but my heart was in pursuit. Paradoxically, I felt lost but not without an intent.

I pulled the boat into the bank and onto the deck. As I pushed the boat into its rightful place I found that morning, I felt the engraving at the boat's right rowlock again. "Emily", my fingertips reminded me. I wondered if Emily knew that Josh had engraved her name on the boat.

Again. "Emily".

I pictured two hearts engraving each others' names as they communed. And, I wondered if that is actually what we do when we care, love, and understand one another. With each passing moment, we etch deeper. When one of us goes away, we are left with a void. The largest void would hurt the most. Then, I wondered if I should be in joy that it had hurt so much for me. All the while, I thought how ridiculous it was to imagine hearts with arms and legs etching names onto each other. But, I understood the sincerity. And, I wished one of those hearts were mine.

The end

Yellow Boat (Goodbye, Pt. 1 of 2)

One early morning, I began rowing on a stolen boat, working myself toward the center of the lake. I had always seen this boat by the deck nearby my cottage, but I had never seen its owner. It was a simple wooden-boat with no mast, a pair of paddles made from pine and its body painted yellow. With care, it had aged well. There was a name engraved by the right rowlock, which read "Emily". I didn't see a last name, and I did not know an Emily. Perhaps, it was the name of the boat, I thought.

Slowly paddling the calm, blue lake, I drifted agaze at the echoes of water ripples created by each stroke. I had always loved the waters - lakes, rivers, seas, and waterfalls. I find myself transfixed at the sight of its vast body, and all calamities of thoughts cease. The anxieties evaporate and peace settles. There's an element of healing to the waters, I always say. And perhaps, each time I long to go out to the waters I'm looking for healing. And perhaps, that's why on that day I decided to steal the boat and row into the waters aimlessly.

By the time I reached the center, the morning mist had cleared. I could see the sky, light blue with a temper of orange at the edge of horizon. I gathered the paddles and placed them below the center thwart. I slouched, bedding my shoulders on the front thwart and resting my head against the front edge of the boat. Thinking of which, I realised I had rowed the boat backward, though it didn't matter. With my face skyward, I pictured myself seen from distance in supine position, hovering on water as if the boat didn't exist. Then, I imagined the world upside-down. This was the bottom-end of the waters and I had been peering down into the sky from above. Few minutes passed. I don't remember what I had been thinking then. But I sense that it was ominous. Then, I fell asleep.

I woke up to a woman's voice. "Josh?"

When I opened my eyes, the sun was shining right down on me. I couldn't open them. I heard the voice again, "Josh? Is that you?" Her voice was much clearer.

I lifted my head, and saw the lake. The boat was about as far from the banks as I remembered. There was nobody in sight. Then, I heard the voice again. It came from below. "Josh, is that you?"

I straightened up and looked down. And unbeknownst to me, the next two minutes would be the strangest two minutes of my life. There was a catfish, the size of a small child. And I heard it speak, the words as clear as the day. But, I would not believe it. It motioned, it gestured, it spoke fluidly, but I would not accept it. I felt the blood rush into my head, and I froze. My senses had dissociated and I felt inanimate. Like a stone.

When I had collected my senses, I was able to understand again. "I'm terribly sorry," said the catfish. "I didn't mean to alarm you."

"I'm really sorry," repeated the fish.

Then, suddenly, I felt the blood drain from my head, and I felt dizzy. I had a headache. I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead where I felt the pulse.

The fish seemed concerned and asked, "Are you alright?"

I was able to respond. Yet, still surreal-struck, I murmured, "Yes."

I opened my eyes and the fish was still there. Our eyes met. Still in disbelief, I wanted to ask if it had spoke. The question lingered in my head but my lips remained unmoved. A moment passed, and she broke the silence. Her voice softened, "I'm sorry. But I have to ask. Where did you find this boat?"

I replied slowly, "By the deck, that way." I pointed south.

"Do you know the owner of this boat?" asked the fish.

I shook my head. Then, I asked her, "What does he look like?"

"He must be about forty years old now. Brown hair," said the fish.

Almost all of my cottage neighbors were gray-plus. "I don't know," I answered. I asked, "When's the last time you saw him?"

"About twenty-five years ago?" she replied.

I blurted, "How old are you?"

Realising my rudeness, I quickly blushed. She noticed my blush but answered me anyway. "I, too, am about forty."

My eyes widened.

"You don't go fishing often, I reckon?" She would later tell me that you can easily estimate the fish's age by its size.

I shook my head.

"You look about fifteen," she guessed.

"I'm sixteen," I replied.

She smiled. "It's quite rare to see someone come around the waters and not fish. Well, it's rare to see someone so young come around here at all." A beat, then she continued, "How did you come about this boat?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly, "I stole it."

"You don't seem like the type of person to steal," she remarked.

I was a little embarrassed. I replied, "No, I don't know why. I just felt like coming out here." I took a deep breath. "I..."

"Needed to be alone," she filled in.

"Yea."

There was a strange familiarity in the dialogue, as if our encounter had been recited many times before. We chatted for hours. She told me that her name was Emilia, and Josh used to called her "Emily" or "Em". I introduced myself also - Luke. She told me about her summers with Josh. He'd come to the lake, and he'd always have a bruise or a scar from his adventures in the wild. He was small and skinny. He had short brown hair, round hazel eyes, and a smile like Calvin's from "Calvin and Hobbes". He often brought books, magazines, and comics with him into the waters and read with Emily. She really enjoyed "Calvin and Hobbes", she said. One time, Josh had brought a mini-rocket and he shot it into the sky. It missed and actually shot into the woods. And, she would listen to Josh go on and on about how the rocket nozzle design was improper. He'd bring another one, and another one, until he got it right on the 10th try. She said she remembered every one of them. Another time, he brought Emily fruits, mostly berries, just to let her try. She didn't understand how people could eat something so distasteful, she said. Emily told me stories after stories; I listened mostly. I was magnetized. Her experiences and tales compelled me, and I felt myself live through them. But, as she ended her tales of Josh, I experienced the sharp pain led by the premise of our encounter that morning. After 3 long summers, Josh had disappeared, and Emily didn't know why or where. She didn't have a chance to say goodbye. And, after 25 years, she didn't even know whether he was alive. This yellow boat was the only reminder she's had, and I had reluctantly ridden it that day.

Continued on Yellow Boat (Goodbye, Pt. 2 of 2)

Just Wanted to Share

In Dreams Begin Responsibilites

You were crying in your sleep. It was all but a dream yet the pain lingered. Then you realized it wasn't a dream, but a memory. Wonders unseen and gone. You wondered why you still felt the pain. It's because you have not yet faced it truthfully. Don't try to erase it because it's impossible to do so. Memories are the most secret diaries we carry in ourselves, however bitter or sweet they may be. Good or bad. They cannot be undone, just as you cannot be undone. Therefore, I must ask you to do the hardest thing. Accept them, and you'll find yourself again.

Connecting terminal. An old crow speaks.

When I was younger, I was wiser. There was a time when I understood words like purity, tranquility, and decency. But with age comes regrets and reality. Oh, the realities! They are the fiercest enemy you can find. When I was young, I believed if I could fly higher I'd be able to do much more. They agreed. I believed in a cause and they thought it was noble. I believed love was all I needed, and they guided me through their plans. They said it was just as necessary if my belief were to come to life. But rubbles! Why did I listen to them? Stranger, if my words can reach you then listen. Do not be blinded by reality as I have been. Love is all you need. It is unparalleled; it is one and the only one of its kind and does not compare. Plans, actions, happiness, money, and food are all necessarily important. But in light of love, they're secondary. When you find love, it'll do you good as laying a foundation which you can build yourself. That is, a foundation on which you can build plans, happiness, food, and shelter. But without love, we are hopelessly lost. Without it, we are weak. Without it, we're even more limited. Family, lovers, and friends share and carry each others' burdens. Love is the link that binds them together. Do not be mild about it as I was. Cherish it. They'll become your strength. And remember, we cannot take just what is good in our eyes, accept the good only, and reject the rest. Love is not partial. Remember that, stranger. Etch it inside of you. It'll help you in times of need. And lest you feel ashamed about your imperfections, don't be. Do not try to be perfect. It is as absurd as trying to create the perfect snow flake.

I've seen countless snow flakes, each one of them beautiful.

Never Let Go

I hate the fragility. We're so weak. Yet the bonds we make can be so strong. I think that's what keeps us intact most of the time. And most of our lives. Friendships and love, that is.

Human beings are like that.

That day, you asked me a series of hard questions which I didn't have an answer to a single one of them. I have some responses now, albeit poor. You asked me why people asked questions like 'What do you do for a living?' You thought it was strange that people would do something in order to live, and breathe, rather than to live to do something. You kept saying 'What do you live to do?' would be more correct. And all the while you seemed completely emotionless. Then you mentioned about the other time you were watching the television. In the program the parents of a son had found out he was dating. And that the parents would nag him about her job, height, family, and a picture of her. You thought those were very strange words to describe love. You asked me of which, asking him to describe her eyes or asking him for her job description, would tell more about the relationship and his love? You seemed to be a little snarky by then. I don't know whether you were being rhetorically critical or simply confused. But I thought about this for a while and it never crossed my mind. But I think it's strange too, that people would request such mundane information. So, maybe next time I ask a friend about his relationship I thought I'd try ask him about her favorite color, the shoes she likes, what kind of food she likes and how she eats, and ask him to describe her eyes and smiles. And hopefully, if I think about it for a while I'll see more and more what you meant. You stayed quiet for a bit afterwards. Then, you spoke up again abruptly as I was just about to leave. You asked me what people meant when they said 'Time heals.' I was confused. I didn't understand the question. Then, you expanded the question by adding what was innate in time that could heal? I still didn't get it. So, you asked me to try remember one of my past wounds that have healed. I did. Then, you asked me whether I just sat through after my wound or did I have somebody to talk to and comfort me. I sat back down and thought long and hard. I got what you meant after few minutes. I did have someone whom I will always be grateful. So, I had come to my resolve. I don't believe time heals. Relationships heal. Time is a necessary agent for healing because it takes time for relationships to grow and to understand one another. Time is simply a necessary prior for healing. But when I figured it out, you had already left and I never saw you again.

Wine over water.

When what you have is bigger and more precious than you, never let go.

Photo sourced from Google

The Velveteen Rabbit

What is real?

Back then, I've understood loneliness to be just another part of life. An impossible acquaintance to rid. Yet, it was perfectly benign. Once you've mapped out the boundaries of loneliness it had began to feel more like a chore than an emotion. Just another variable in life that I needed to deal with. Of course, appearances can be deceiving. Loneliness wasn't benign. It carried a heavy price; you'd have to suffer not feeling anything at all. Outside, life continued on but I wouldn't respond. I had forgotten how.

Post-modernism.

I used to believe that it didn't matter how horrible I treated someone. It would be justified if I treated myself worse. If I upheld certain values and expected people to live by them, it would be all okay as long as I accounted myself by even more stringent values. The saying, 'do unto others as you would have them do unto you', was still in effect. If I got angry with someone because she had disappointed me, the anger would be justified because I've gotten even more upset with myself when the same mistake was made by me. It was all relative. Hence, right or wrong only existed in contextual, perspective-dependent basis. It was merely a perception.

Time passed and I realized that not everyone was so thick-skinned like me. People got hurt. But I only took pity. Life is tough and I had shown them a piece of it. I wasn't sorry. They didn't understand it. It was their fault! I believed tears were a sign of weakness. And I wouldn't ask for help, ever. Dependence was admitting defeat. I would continue this phase for years, distancing myself more and more from people. And slowly I found myself alone. But I'd continue, until I couldn't feel anything. Life had become a clockwork. There was no pulse, only ticks.

Love.

The numbness persisted. It was a while before I felt the pain. I couldn't go on like that anymore. It wasn't humane; all reality had been sealed off and by lack of, I was suffocating. The pain, which felt like a dryness I could not quench, would grow more and more. Then came the hunger. I was hungry for something real. I wouldn't care what it was, as long as it was real and genuine. Yet, I'd still try to ignore the pain. But then something happened. I saw something, or what was about to come. I saw darkness brewing and the malevolent bane it had conceived. Eventually, it would swallow me whole. I got scared. I started to crumble down the very walls I've built around me. I'd turn back and open myself up again, slowly. Eventually, reality started to sink back in and I was adjusting again.

I had started reading more. I frequented morning and afternoon teas. I was playing the guitar again. Writing, photography, design, music, and architecture seemed fun. What seemed like strenuous endeavors before became enjoyable. The subway rides to school became a lot less mundane, silence became a lot less uncomfortable. Flowers seemed brighter, air crisper, conversations were more intriguing, and the city became more interesting. Food had become more palatable and I'd go out more with my friends, meet new people and see new things. Requisites for love and life had taken toll and unbeknownst to me then, months after, in the following spring, I would fall in love.

"What is real?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

Excerpt from The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

Old Candies

I don't know why you're smiling. With a grin so devious and your eyes so senile, you know you're about to collapse. You've been so focused on building this and that. What an empire you've created, of dust. And dust you will become, too, eventually. The hourglass stands strong, so you say. But so did all the souls who have come before you. And I ask, where could you possibly be going? There is nothing beyond. Your legs exhibit the pride of a warrior, or so you claim. But you've deliberately shadowed it. You're ashamed of them. The very feet you fault for having outpaced all the people around you. So long. The bridges you've crossed and the hands that you shook have been severed. You speak of confidence. All I see is arrogance, besieged against your weakness.

Listen to my words while you still can, for it might be just another mile or two before you'll even lose me. I'm a friend. You might disagree, but I'm trying to help you. Stop and reflect. I don't know what you believe but it doesn't make sense you ought to be doing what you are doing. Especially alone. You insist though. That will become your end-all. Hubris, that is. You deny, but even if your denial were true sooner or later you will become the captive of your soul because of it. I know it. But I suppose there's no point arguing with you. Such ill-witted large wall you have around you. Strong you may be. Yet you're tired and thirsty. Come back awhile and I'll throw a new linen on your bed. Flocculent, just as you like it. It's the least I can do. You can see there's no harm in that. Yet still, you insist you move forward. Into a void.

Have some of those candies at least. The ones in your pocket. You are weak; those ought to give you extra mileage. They look awfully delicious, too. The journey is tedious already, you could savor those up. You've earned it. Plus, eating them ought to lighten up your burdens too. You don't need to carry them with you forever. Candies are cheap; they shouldn't be valuable anyway. Your life is more valuable, am I wrong? Just eat them. Eat them already! This is the last advice I'll give to you!

Who cares if they're old?! Candies don't expire. I don't understand this! You'd rather risk dying than eat those candies and give yourself a better chance ahead. What could be so valuable about those candies?! They're just damn candies! Would you rather die than eat them?! Are they that important?! Are they worth your life?! Are they worth dying for?!

Yes.

Spread by James Turrell.

Like Luminol

Seoul may wield a soul boring as a plain bowl, but it'll maul your galls if you don't curtain your stronghold walls. Make you small, let you fall. As vandals, it'll stun and appall. Sprawl voodoo dolls along with its squalls. Steadfast, if you're not, its soft snow balls will avalanche and tide your end-alls. I knew a friend from Montreal whose spirit has been hauled. Now it lies to crawl among the thousands around the city hall. Drawl not, for you will surely befall your diffidence under masquerades of cabals and seductions of sirens' calls. Bawl you may but should not, because for all things banal and abysmal, hope exists somewhere antipodal. Lest you forget, fixate on the compass on your gimbal, and ride not words venal. Install your all, mark your halls on matters that ignite your soul like alkaline on luminol.

'White on White' painting by Kazimir Malevich. 1918, Museum of Modern Art.

Poem on the Way

On my way home from In-Sa-Dong. On the subway platform of Seoul Metro.

Photo by me!

The Story of Polo the Rabbit

Once upon a time there lived a rabbit whose name was Polo. He had brown eyes, snow-white fur and a pair of long elegant ears. Did I mention he had a cute butt? He looked like any other rabbit and if you were to pick him out of the crowd, it would've been just as hard to spot another rabbit. He was ordinary-looking, or maybe a tad more handsome than other rabbits? He went about his days like eating carrots, running races, and going to school like any other rabbit. But the similarity stops there.

You see, he had no friends. He was a bizarre one. He was, to say the least, different. Growing up he didn't get along with other rabbits. To be fair, Polo was nice and he was always eager to help those in need. It's just that no one really understood him. When other rabbits were going to school, he'd skip classes to take a walk, watch the clouds, or study the rivers. He was a curious soul and he was genuinely innocent to the point of being fearless. He didn't care much for toys, the race and the rankings, or even grooming or rabbit beauty products. It would be safe to say that Polo was more in tune with Mother Nature than the rabbits, or his kind.

Polo was also particular in that he liked to talk to the insects such as the bees, the butterflies, or the centipedes. Mind you, the rabbits were an awfully proud race. They ruled over all the other animals in their village including the squirrels, the turtles, and the mice. The rabbits were in charge of rationing the food, setting up regulations, and other social works that concerned basic animal rights. But Polo wasn't like any other rabbits. He befriended the insects just as much as he befriended his fellow rabbits, or any other animals. And because of that, he was often made fun of and he slowly became an outcast.

It was one rainy spring but with lots of sun. The crops grew and grew. They towered over the rabbit village and all the rabbits marveled at their harvest. Among the crops were the carrots, the rabbits' only food. They saw how much carrots they had and they rejoiced. They harvested in joy. They quickly piled up and rationed among the rabbit families. They left none for any other animals. The first night, all the rabbits gathered up and had a feast. They played, ate, ate, and ate. The second night, they had another feast. The third, the fourth, the fifth.. This continued until there were no more carrots left. Yet, it was only the middle of summer. Such foolish rabbits! How could they eat all those carrots before the season is up? So they were forced to go back out in the fields and this time, they harvested the leaves as well as the roots. And by the end of fall, most of the roots in the field were gone. They were quickly depleting and at this rate the rabbits would've exhausted all their resources. Polo became concerned. He told the elder rabbits about the problem, but they were too stubborn and would not listen.

Polo, being a rabbit, could not travel too far because he knew beyond the village and the hills, there were foxes and wild-dogs. So he pleaded the Queen Bee to help him locate a plot of land that he could use to farm. And in return, he would help the bee colonies detect bears with his long years and take shifts on watch. So the Queen Bee found him a hearty acre of land to farm his carrots. Polo gathered up all the carrots he had and planted them. He also started saving up little of the carrots he received and farmed them as well. Polo quickly became exhausted but he continued night after day.

I wish I could tell you that the next spring Polo became a savior and all the rabbits loved him. But such a fairytale-like story belongs in fairytale books.

Before Polo could tell the rabbits about the plot of land where the carrots grew, other rabbits already informed the elders. The credits went onto someone else. And Polo grew weary. He was growing tired of this world and the foolish rabbit ways. He wished he could travel and explore the world beyond the hills, but he also knew that his deeds weren't without purpose. He was helping hundreds of the rabbits stay alive.

Polo the farmer rabbit continued this deed years after years. Polo lived till 9 years, which is a long stretch in rabbit years, but until his last breath he continued to farm without recognition. He did what he did because he believed in his deeds. He loved the rabbits nevertheless and continued to enjoy his life among other animals and insects. As his relationship with the bees deepened, he had the honors of chatting with the Queen Bee which no other rabbit had ever done before. He continued to help the bees out on their bear-watch. He also befriended lots of other insects such as the centipedes, the spiders, and even the fish. But among all the animals, Polo had a true friend that he always talked to. And that's the willow tree at the top of the hill. And it's the same willow tree that housed Queen Bee's hives and colonies. Polo loved to come under the shade of the tree and just share a chat or his dreams with the tree. Sometimes he would come to seek counsel and the tree would give him advice. Polo was a good rabbit. Although not a properly accredited hero, Polo was a hero in his own right. And I'd say there was a sense of joy in Polo's life as well. Actually, I'd say his life was richer and more blessed than any other rabbits I've ever known. And believe me when I say that Polo truly lived his life to the fullest.

Goodbye Polo. We'll all miss you.

Dream Storm

I remember about a year ago I was riding the subway one day. It was a usual week day, just finishing up class and heading back home in a fairly cold November weather. I was standing by the doors near the center of the train cart, listening to my iPod. But then, I saw someone I knew from my high-school sitting at one end of the train. She was crying. I could see the tears from afar. And even if she weren't crying at the moment, I knew she had been crying before, hard. I wasn't a close friend with her nor did I talk to her much, but I remember thinking and hesitating whether I should go say hi. Maybe I could help. But another part of me stopped myself, reminding myself that if I were in her shoes I wouldn't want to run into anyone. And I kept standing there, hesitant and undecided, also wondering why she might have been crying. Perhaps she just got out of a relationship, perhaps she had a serious argument with her parents, perhaps she had a fight with a friend of hers and she was hurt, and so on.

In the end, I didn't do anything. And to this day, I wish I had. Even just a simple 'Hey, are you okay?' would've been good enough, presuming a stranger's role.

Ah, rather would I had my train of thought crash than to have been idle. Anything but that. Prayer should I have recited however softly spoken, doubting uncertainties not. Backwards I can speak, but it will bring the chance back not. Stop.

Aye, the night's getting old and I'm growing tired. I'm slowly falling into my dreams. Closer, closer. My thoughts are beginning to leak.

Ah, yes. It's the 37th of Decembruary in the kingdom of Pluto. It's a cold, bitter day and there's not a life in sight. Everything's blanketed in gray and the planet's asleep. But there's a deserted ice-rink and a man skates alone. He performs few loops, a jump, then a one-foot axel. Then, he comes to a halt. He seems troubled and he stands idle for a while. Suddenly, he starts breathing heavily and he jumps. He jumps really, really high. Wait, it's not a jump. He's flying. He's flying in the sky and the clouds welcome him. He stretches out his arms and a school of sky-fish join him but with an abrupt horn of the mule-whale all the fish are scared off. He reaches into his skates and pulls out a telescope. He blows on it and immediately the Orion belt falls and joins him in the sky. With each star illuminating and exuding tremendous amount of color gas, all the life in the sky comes alive. Soon the stars begin to diminish but it burns brighter and brighter until they become nothing. He thanks the stars and says a brief farewell. He continues to soar through the skies until he sees an iceberg mountain that has reached the heights of skies. With his skates, he lands on the iceberg mountain ever so gently. The mountain rumbles, gives a whistle, and three tunnels appear. From it, we see a pair of blue doves, a pair of red doves, a pair of green doves, and one yellow dove appear. The blue, red, and green doves gather around each other and begins to encircle the yellow dove. They chant a lullaby and once they're done, they brush each others' beaks. They all give a gentle prayer of praise and there's an explosion. Ice dust fogs and covers as so far as the mountain top, but then out of explosive spectacle flies off a single white dove. The dove joins him and sits on top of his right shoulder. It gives a joyful crackle and softly nibbles on the man's right ear. The man welcomes the dove as his friend and puts his hands together. It's time for him to leave. The dove understands, but is deeply saddened. It sheds a tear as it looks into his eyes. He quietly gazes back with a smile. Then, boom. The man explodes and there's an enormous gush of wind. The dove can barely pilot its way in the explosion. The storm lasts 3 seconds, then we see the storm of air travel in all directions of planet Pluto. There's a vibrant burst of colors and there's life again. All the sky-fish come out to play once again. Supernovas in the sky give birth to millions of stars. The ice melts and the animals breathe again. Alligators, zebras, and koalas all come out to play. Beams of sun envelop the Pluto ground once again and both of its moons join the party. The dove watches all these events unfold in joy. But in a short moment, the dove wonders where the man has gone. It desperately searches and yearns for his presence. But there's not a trace of the man. He had turned into stardust, for it was his wish to preside in all living things. The dove finally understands and once again, it sheds a tear.

Stardust, he became.

We seek him, yet we are the very stardust.