my dad said it seems like I've grow up a bit . . .

what's happening to my parents . . . ?

my mom hugged me . . .

Behind the beautiful rose bush is a mat of tangled thorns no one loves or wants. Because the thorns hurt. And the blood from pricked fingers stain the flowers, the oh so beautiful flowers. So everyone cuts the thorns off. But there are too many thorns. And so everyone forgets the thorns are even there.

Or that's how I wish things were. I'm cursed to prick my fingers until there's no skin left to tarnish. Like the curse of the spinning wheel. I'll fall into a deep deep slumber. But there will be no prince to kiss me awake. And I'll sleep peacefully forever.

With no happy ending.

Oh how beautiful the roses are indeed. But the roses comes with thorns that no one loves. Yet almost everyone bears the thorns deeply embedded in their hands. They wrap their hands with bandages. And they bear their pain and their love together.

But I don't think I can do the same. I want to sleep and sleep. With my bandaged hands without thorns. But I'll have no prince to kiss me awake.

It would be best if I learned to bear the thorns. Yet that immortal, spoiled child inside still wants the best of both worlds.

For now I'll keep pricking my hands until I have no more skin to tarnish. Before choosing to bear the thorns or to sleep forever.

Appreciation

There are different forms of appreciation.
But can they be compared? The appreciation for life when you've live through years of poverty and without luxury. The appreciation after surviving through surgery. The appreciation after getting over depression.


"When I was 10 and first saw a radio, I thought there were people inside them."

"Back then, we thought a 9-inch television screen was impressive."

"We had to sit behind each other, because if you looked at the screen from the side, you couldn't see what was happening."

"In college, when it was about the time when China's women volleyball were at their peak, everyone crowded around the TV. There was only 20 inch TV for each dormitory. Six floors, twenty rooms, eight people per room. The first row, people sat on the floor, behind them, people sat on chairs. Then people stood. Then people stood on chairs. Then people stood on the table. The people stood on chairs on tables. All the way until people's heads were touching the ceiling."

"We were so proud when both of our children could go to college. You could only take the exam once. If you failed that one time, you could never go to college. Not in China."

it's time to move on

I hate it when my sister comes to visit.

It only reaffirms my loss.

Time, pain, loneliness, emptiness.

And I remember that there will be a time when she won't come back home. And there will be a time when I leave home. And there will be a time when I won't come back home. And there will be a time when my parents won't be home.

And after all the time has passed, when the pain has increased, when the loneliness peaks, and when the emptiness remains . . . I'll have a new home.

And I'll be happy, surrounded by the people I love and perhaps know then that they don't love me conditionally, perhaps they'll understand that I love them unconditionally, perhaps we'll be a family.

But then I'll lose more on the day my children will leave home. And one day, they won't come back home. And one day, I won't be home.

tsudere